







































Qass_ 

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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 







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THE 

BEST GHOST STORIES 


EDITED BY 
BOHUN LYNCH 



BOSTON 

SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 




CoPTRICHT, 1924 



By SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY 

(Incorporated) 


Printed in the United States of America 


THE MURRAY PRINTING COMPANY 
THE BOSTON BOOKBINDING COMPANY 
CAMBRIDGE, MASS. 



©CU792075 ')• 


For 

J. C. SQUIRE 




CONTENTS 


Pack 

Introduction.ix 

The Shadow of a Midnight. (Baring, Maurice) *. . 3 

The Thing in the Hall. (Benson, E. F.) . . . . 10 

The Willows. (Blackwood, Algernon) .... 29 

The Old Nurse’s Story. (Gaskell, Mrs.) .... 107 

The Tractate Middoth. (James, M. R.) . . . . 142 

Thurnley Abbey. (Landon, Percival).169 

The Fountain. (Mordaunt, Elinor) '.194 

Not on the Passenger-List. (Pain, Barry) . . . 244 

The Fall of the House of Usher. (Poe, Edgar Allan) 264 
The Victim. (Sinclair, May).294 


Tii 








X 


INTRODUCTION 


The Devil has assumed various guises in various 
times and countries, the most usual being that 
which he derived from Pan. At Northlew, a village 
in Devonshire, a stag that had wandered down 
from Exmoor died of the cold; and the people, 
recognising him by the horns, cloven hooves and 
tail, buried him and put a cross over him, which 
stands today. “ But,’’ said a native once, when 
being congratulated on this happy event, I rackon 
ther’ be plenny o’ ’is ancestors be still livvin’.” 

But for the purposes of ghost stories we dismiss 
the Devil. In his sulphurous place we have 
psycho-analysis. We dismiss the Devil quite 
firmly, though with a polite bow. Nevertheless 
we turn immediately upon the grinning children 
at our elbows and frown at them. 

We ask of a ghost story that it should thrill us, 
that it should make our rising from the fireside, 
our crossing of the hall, our approach to the stair¬ 
case adventures of real uneasiness. We should 
be brought to that plight when the cold wet nose 
of an Irish terrier unexpectedly thrust at our 
hands, or the subtle touch of a cat rubbing against 
us in a dark passage will produce sudden sweat 
upon our brows. 

And because a delightfully loathsome story by 
Dr. James, or the eerie suggestiveness of Mr. 
Blackwood genuinely terrify us, is that to say 
that we “ believe in ghosts ”? No — a thousand 
times, No! People who “ believe in ghosts ” are 


INTRODUCTION 


XI 


seldom able to write good ghost stories, or to enjoy 
reading them; or perhaps I should amend that by 
saying, “ people who believe in spiritualism.” For 
one thing, the earnest believer who tells his well- 
authenticated story devotes by far too great a 
share of his attention to the production of evidence 
and too little to the story itself. Perhaps I ought 
to qualify this too by drawing some distinction 
between the different brands of believers. I am 
not saying, for example, that the authors who have 
written good stories collected here, and because 
they have written good stories do not apprehend 
some sort of condition-of-being beyond normal 
experience, for I think that they do. People who 
“ believe in ghosts ” I seem to see as naive and 
ardent disciples of a modern cult, initiated by 
men who mingle with profound erudition a good 
wholesome credulity. The disciples, as a rule, 
manage very well without the erudition, whilst 
their credulity ripens to a point which is not, per¬ 
haps, entirely wholesome. 

And there are others, amongst whom are tellers 
of ghost stories, who do not trouble at all about 
the scientific aspects of any case, who, when they 
tell a story, tell it for that story^s sake and not 
for its value as evidence, and who at the same 
time are curiously aware of more things in Heaven 
and Earth — not than are dreamt of in our philos¬ 
ophy, because there is practically nothing that 
our philosophers don’t dream about, but — than 
are explicable by the customary standards of a 


Xll 


INTRODUCTION 


sound commercial education. Indeed, taking this 
quite literally, that is why Dr. James’ story of 
Mr. James Denton, M.A., F.S.A.* (who put his 
hand down beside his chair and found it was not 
the spaniel that he touched), is less terrible in a 
particular way than a story where some unpleasing 
experience of that sort befalls a stockbroker or 
an engineer. You rather expect Fellows of the 
Society of Antiquaries to suffer occult proceedings, 
but suppose that when you pulled open the drawer 
of the card-index. . . . ? It doesn’t do to think 
about. 

It is people who have no scientific or pseudo¬ 
scientific excuse for their exploration, whose 
beliefs are vague, who do not trouble the Society 
for Psychical Research with letters, who succeed 
in writing the best ghost stories, I fancy; and 
who in turn most enjoy reading them. For there 
is a magic door, is there not?—through which 
we sometimes catch a glimpse; there are moments 
of ecstatic enlightenment, which have nothing at 
all to do with planchette boards, or tumblers, or 
crystals, or seances^ or societies. Somewhere — 
out, beyond, or far within us — there is a region 
of terror and of unimaginable beauty too. Such 
magic doors, such moments are, I think, inde¬ 
pendent of appropriate settings, or of settings, at 
least, which we consider appropriate. The loveli¬ 
ness of a rose garden, the desolation of vast open 

♦ TAe Diary of Mr. Poynter from A Thin Ghost 'and Others^ by 
M. R. James (Edward Arnold). 


INTRODUCTION 


xiii 

spaces — moors, with high jagged pinnacles of 
rock, or of whispering forests — such scenes as 
these not merely induce but thrust upon us an 
easy self-conviction of ulterior powers, of hidden 
meanings, of forces, or presences even that are 
latent and not manifest. 

But choose less obvious ground: lean upon a 
plain and lonely gate and stare and stare before 
you into the field, and keep quite still and go on 
staring. And the sun goes down and there is 
almost complete silence. Wheels rattle upon a 
distant road and cease, the bark of a dog, the 
clucking of fowls are noticeable because the world 
is quiet: these, too, are heard no more, and there 
come to you only the littlest sounds that Nature 
sends — minute squeakings and buzzings and 
twitterings — and the colours change before you, 
the grass, the hedgerows and the trees, and their 
shapes alter and the scent of earth rises up to 
you — the most intimate, the most thrilling of 
natural experiences. Listen, for there are noises 
now for which we have no explanation. Keep 
still, for you may feel a strange vibration; watch, 
for the haze is a deepening blue, and in it, through 
it, out of it what may not glide? You are all 
alone, out there, with the earth and sky, and 
the dim hugeness of evening wraps you about, and 
you know that anything can happen, in a moment 
must happen, if only your senses remain S3mipa- 
thetic. 

No writer that I can think of has so well 


XIV 


INTRODUCTION 


suggested this secret kingdom of spiritual appre¬ 
hension as Mr. Blackwood; and I have chosen 
his story, The Willows^ because apart from its 
intrinsic merits as a story (and they are consider¬ 
able) it illustrates two phases of his peculiar gift. 
It conveys to the reader the sense of fear in such 
a way that he can easily, indeed dreadfully, iden¬ 
tify himself with the narrator, and it is a richly 
imaginative work in which the author first creates 
and then explores a very borderland of the soul. 

It is not easy to define a ghost story. Now¬ 
adays the expression, like a good many others, 
is loosely employed, so that every kind of occult, 
queer, or magical fiction is so called. Must a 
ghost story deal only with the appearances of some 
person who is known to be dead and perhaps 
buried? No, for that would exclude the whole 
body of horrible tales about Elementals, or un¬ 
known Powers of the earth and air, things like 
The Thing in the Hally or Fiends, such as that 
which stood behind Mr. Dennistoun whilst he 
turned over the leaves of Canon Alberic^s Scrap- 
Bo ok. I think these may reasonably enough be 
called ghosts; for they at any rate, and obviously, 
belong to some other state of existence than our 
own. But that unforgettable and awful story of 
Mr. Barry Pain, The Undying Thingy\ is, as its 
title implies, not a ghost story; nor is Mr. Arthur 
Machen’s The Great God Pan. Indeed, Mr. 

* Ghost Stories ‘of an Antiquary. By M. R. James (Edward 
Arnold). 

"t Stories in the Dark. By Barry Pain (Grant Richards). 


INTRODUCTION 


XV 


Machen’s work, like much of Mr. Blackwood’s, is 
deeply and sometimes appallingly suggestive, and 
their art consists largely of their extraordinary 
power of preparing the reader’s mind for things 
which only just happen, in print, at all. You 
might almost say that, in reading some of Mr. 
Machen’s work, you supply your own facts, making 
them suitable to his atmosphere. And then, of 
course, there was the old type of ghost story, 
which bid fair to keep you awake all night in 
agony, until you came to the end and found that 
it had or might have a natural explanation. Such 
a story, but for the receipt for Steenie’s rent, is 
Wandering Willie^s Tale in Redgauntlet, The 
ape stole the money, and the rest of it might well 
have been a dream. 

A ghost story needs to be one of two things — 
either a definite exploration of new spiritual 
country, so to put it, such as is to be found in 
much of Mr. Blackwood’s work, making an appeal 
to you through its intense reality and sincerity; or, 
a good old-fashioned, creepy, bogey story, such 
as Dr. James’, which has not the slightest pre¬ 
tence of going below the surface, or of being at 
all serious, but which raises the hair by its purely 
objective horror. 

Of living writers, Mr. Blackwood and Dr. James 
may be called the heads of their respective 
“ schools.” The author,” wrote “ The Guard¬ 
ian’s ” reviewer of Dr. James’ first volume. The 
Ghost Stories of an Antiquary, “ has certainly 


XVI 


INTRODUCTION 


succeeded in making its readers feel ^ pleasantly 
uncomfortable/ if he has not gone beyond it.” 

“ To be sure/’ wrote Dr. James in a preface to 
his second volume, More Ghost Stories, “ I have 
my ideas as to how a ghost story ought to be 
laid out if it is to be effective. I think that, as 
a rule, the setting should be fairly familiar and 
the majority of the characters and their talk such 
as you may meet or hear any day.” 

As a matter of fact, he gives his stories the 
settings that he knows, and these are fairly 
familiar,” but no more than that. For people 
connected with either of the Universities, certainly 
they will be found additionally delectable. Later 
in that preface Dr. James observed, . . I 
feel that the technical terms of ‘ occultism,’ if they 
are not very carefully handled, tend to put the 
mere ghost story (which is all that I am attempt¬ 
ing) upon a quasi-scientific plane, and to call into 
play faculties quite other than the imaginative.” 

These stories gain enormously from their 
authentic antiquarian and scholarly flavour; they 
gain from the author’s explicit love of old houses, 
old books, old prints; from the Latin inscriptions, 
with the spelling and construction of their various 
periods inimitably imitated; from extracts from 
eighteenth century diaries; whilst relief is found 
in delightful and unusually shrewd reproductions 
of conversation — such as the malaproprieties of 
the agent in Mr. Humphreys and His Inheritance,"^ 

* More Ghost Stories. By M. R. James. 


INTRODUCTION 


xvii 


the talk of servants, and so on. Indeed, for every 
one of these subsidiary interests Dr. James’ stories 
are worth re-reading again and again. 

Equally but quite differently enjoyable are 
stories of the subjective school. 

Mr. Blackwood is not wholly guiltless — I won’t 
say of using the “ technical terms of ‘ occultism,’ ” 
because I am not quite sure what they are, but 
— of using long words,” particularly in some of 
his later work, such as The Centaur, But his long 
words are very convincingly bestrewn in imagina¬ 
tive stories of great poetic beauty; and they are 
not unnecessarily used, and at the worst they do 
no harm. But the “ mere ghost story ” which Dr. 
James modestly describes as his own object is 
an apt description of very little of Mr. Black¬ 
wood’s work. 

When you have read the stories in this volume 
(preferably late at night and by the light of a 
candle), don’t look behind you on your way up¬ 
stairs, don’t put your hand into the wardrobe 
without first opening wide the door, and remember 
how very well anyone (or thing) beneath your 
bed can grip your ankles just after you have kicked 
your shoes off. 


Bohun Lynch. 


The Editor’s thanks are due to Mr. Mordaunt, Miss May Sinclair, 
Messrs. Maurice Baring, E. F. Benson, Algernon Blackwood, C. S. 
Evans (and Messrs. Heinemann), Dr. M. R. James, Messrs. Percival 
Landon and Barry Pain for their kindness in allowing him to reprint 
stories in this form: and to certain Shades, unprotected by the laws 
of copyright, he makes his apologies. 


THE BEST GHOST STORIES 


/ 


THE BEST GHOST STORIES 


THE SHADOW OF A MIDNIGHT 
By Maurice Baring 

It was nine o’clock in the evening. Sasha, the 
maid, had brought in the samovar and placed it 
at the head of the long table. Marie Nikolaevna, 
our hostess, poured out the tea. Her husband 
was playing Vindt with his daughter, the doctor, 
and his son-in-law in another corner of the room. 
And Jameson, who had just finished his Russian 
lesson — he was working for the Civil Service 
examination — was reading the last number of the 
Rouskoe Slovo. 

“ Have you found anything interesting, Frantz 
Frantzovitch?” said Marie Nikolaevna to Jame¬ 
son, as she handed him a glass of tea. 

Yes, I have,” answered the Englishman, look¬ 
ing up. His eyes had a clear dreaminess about 
them, which generally belongs only to fanatics or 
visionaries, and I had no reason to believe that 
Jameson, who seemed to be common sense personi¬ 
fied, was either one or the other. At least,” 
he continued, “ it interests me. And it’s odd — 
very odd.” 

What is it?” asked Marie Nikolaevna. 

3 


4 THE SHADOW OF A MIDNIGHT 


Well, to tell you what it is would mean a long 
story which you wouldn’t believe,” said Jameson; 
“ only it’s odd — very odd.” 

Tell us the story,” I said. 

As you won’t believe a word of it,” Jameson 
repeated, it’s not much use my telling it.” 

We insisted on hearing the story, so Jameson 
lit a cigarette, and began: 

Two years ago,” he said, “ I was at Heidel¬ 
berg, at the University, and I made friends with 
a young fellow called Braun. His parents were 
German, but he had lived five or six years in 
America, and he was practically an American. I 
made his acquaintance by chance at a lecture, 
when I first arrived, and he helped me in a number 
of ways. He was an energetic and kind-hearted 
fellow, and we became great friends. He was a 
student, but he did not belong to any Korps or 
Bursenschajt, as he was working hard then. After¬ 
wards he became an engineer. When the summer 
semester came to an end, we both stayed on at 
Heidelberg. One day Braun suggested that we 
should go for a walking tour and explore the 
country. I was only too pleased, and we started. 
It was glorious weather, and we enjoyed ourselves 
hugely. On the third night after we had started 
we arrived at a village called Salzheim. It was a 
picturesque little place, and there was a curious 
old church in it with some interesting tombs and 
relics of the Thirty Years War. But the inn where 
we put up for the night was even more picturesque 


MAURICE BARING 


5 


than the church. It had once been a convent for 
nuns, only the greater part of it had been burnt, 
and only a quaint gabled house, and a kind of 
tower covered with ivy, which I suppose had once 
been the belfry, remained. We had an excellent 
supper and went to bed early. We had been given 
two bedrooms, which were airy and clean, and 
altogether we were satisfied. My bedroom opened 
into Braun’s, which was beyond it, and had no 
other door of its own. It was a hot night in July, 
and Braun asked me to leave the door open. I 
did — we opened both the windows. Braun went 
to bed and fell asleep almost directly, for very soon 
I heard his snores. 

“ I had imagined that I was longing for sleep, 
but no sooner had I got into bed than all my 
sleepiness left me. This was odd, because we had 
walked a good many miles, and it had been a 
blazing hot day, and up till then I had slept like 
a log the moment I got into bed. I lit a candle and 
began reading a small volume of Heine I carried 
with me. I heard the clock strike ten, and then 
eleven, and still I felt that sleep was out of the 
question. I said to myself: ^ I will read till twelve 
and then I will stop.’ My watch was on a chair 
by my bedside, and when the clock struck eleven 
I noticed that it was five minutes slow, and set it 
right. I could see the church tower from my 
window, and every time the clock struck — and 
it struck the quarters — the noise boomed through 
the room. 


6 THE SHADOW OF A MIDNIGHT 


“ When the clock struck a quarter to twelve 
I yawned for the first time, and I felt thankful 
that sleep seemed at last to be coming to me. I 
left off reading, and taking my watch in my hand 
I waited for midnight to strike. This quarter 
of an hour seemed an eternity. At last the hands 
of my watch showed that it was one minute to 
twelve. I put out my candle and began counting 
sixty, waiting for the clock to strike. I had 
counted a hundred and sixty, and still the clock 
had not struck. I counted up to four hundred; 
then I thought I must have made a mistake. I 
lit my candle again, and looked at my watch: it 
was two minutes past twelve. And still the clock 
had not struck! 

“ A curious uncomfortable feeling came over 
me, and I sat up in bed with my watch in my 
hand and longed to call Braun, who was peace¬ 
fully snoring, but I did not like to. I sat like 
this till a quarter past twelve; the clock struck 
the quarter as usual. I made up my mind that 
the clock must have struck twelve, and that I 
must have slept for a minute — at the same time 
I knew I had not slept — and I put out my candle. 
I must have fallen asleep almost directly. 

“ The next thing I remember was waking with a 
start. It seemed to me that some one had shut 
the door between my room and Braun^s. I felt 
for the matches. The match-box was empty. Up 
to that moment — I cannot tell wliy — something 
— an unaccountable dread — had prevented me 


MAURICE BARING 


7 


looking at the door. I made an effort and looked. 
It was shut, and through the cracks and through 
the keyhole I saw the glimmer of a light. Braun 
had lit his candle. I called him, not very loudly: 
there was no answer. I called again more loudly: 
there was still no answer. 

“ Then I got out of bed and walked to the door. 
As I went, it gently and slightly opened, just 
enough to show me a thin streak of light. At 
that moment I felt that some one was looking 
at me. Then it was instantly shut once more, as 
softly as it had been opened. There was not a 
sound to be heard. I walked on tiptoe towards 
the door, but it seemed to me that I had taken a 
hundred years to cross the room. And when 
at last I reached the door I felt I could not open 
it. I was simply paralysed with fear. And still 
I saw the glimmer through the key-hole and the 
cracks. 

Suddenly, as I was standing transfixed with 
fright in front of the door, I heard sounds coming 
from Braun’s room, a shuffle of footsteps, and 
voices talking low but distinctly in a language 
I could not understand. It was not Italian, 
Spanish, or French. The voices grew all at once 
louder; I heard the noise of a struggle and a 
cry which ended in a stifled groan, very painful 
and horrible to hear. Then, whether I regained 
my self-control, or whether it was excess of fright 
which prompted me, I don’t know, but I flew to 
the door and tried to open it. Some one or some- 


8 THE SHADOW OF A MIDNIGHT 


thing was pressing with all its might against it. 
Then I screamed at the top of my voice, and as I 
screamed I heard the cock crow. 

“ The door gave, and I almost fell into Braun^s 
room. It was quite dark. But Braun was waked 
by my screams and quietly lit a match. He asked 
me gently what on earth was the matter. The 
room was empty and everything was in its place. 
Outside the first greyness of dawn was in the sky. 

I said I had had a nightmare, and asked him 
if he had not had one as well; but Braun said he 
had never slept better in his life. 

“ The next day we went on with our walking 
tour, and when we got back to Heidelberg Braun 
sailed for America. I never saw him again, 
although we corresponded frequently, and only 
last week I had a letter from him, dated Nijni 
Novgorod, saying he would be at Moscow before 
the end of the month. 

“ And now I suppose you are all wondering what 
this can have to do with anything that’s in the 
newspaper. Well, listen,” and he read out the 
following paragraph from the Rouskoe Slovo: 

Samara, 11, ix. In the centre of the town, in 

the Hotel -, a band of armed swindlers 

attacked a German engineer named Braun and 
demanded money. On his refusal one of the 
robbers stabbed Braun with a knife. The robbers, 
taking the money which was on him, amounting 
to five hundred roubles, got away. Braun called 
for assistance, but died of his wounds in the night. 



MAURICE BARING 


9 


It appears that he had met the swindlers at a 
restaurant.’’ 

“ Since I have been in Russia,” Jameson added, 
I have often thought that I knew what language 
it was that was talked behind the door that night 
in the inn at Salzheim, but now I know it was 
Russian.” 


THE THING IN THE HALL 


By E. F. Benson 

The following pages are the account given me 
by Dr. Assheton of the Thing in the Hall. I took 
notes, as copious as my quickness of hand allowed 
me, from his dictation, and subsequently read to 
him this narrative in its transcribed and connected 
form. This was on the day before his death, which 
indeed probably occurred within an hour after I 
had left him, and, as readers of inquests and such 
atrocious literature may remember, I had to give 
evidence before the coroner’s jury. Only a week 
before Dr. Assheton had to give similar evidence, 
but as a medical expert, with regard to the death 
of his friend, Louis Fielder, which occurred in a 
manner identical with his own. As a specialist, he 
said he believed that his friend had committed sui¬ 
cide while of unsound mind, and the verdict was 
brought in accordingly. But in the inquest held 
over Dr. Assheton’s body, though the verdict 
eventually returned was the same, there was more 
room for doubt. 

For I was bound to state that only shortly 
before his death, I read what follows to him; 
that he corrected me with extreme precision on 
a few points of detail, that he seemed perfectly 
himself, and that at the end he used these words: 

^From The Room in the Tower. (Mills & Boon.) 

10 


E. F. BENSON 


11 


I am quite certain as a brain specialist that 
I am completely sane, and that these things hap¬ 
pened not merely in my imagination, but in the 
external world. If I had to give evidence again 
about poor Louis, I should be compelled to take 
a different line. Please put that down at the end 
of your account, or at the beginning, if it arranges 
itself better so.” 

There will be a few words I must add at the 
end of this story, and a few words of explanation 
must precede it. Briefly, they are these: 

Francis Assheton and Louis Fielder were up at 
Cambridge together, and there formed the friend¬ 
ship that lasted nearly till their death. In general 
attributes no two men could have been less alike, 
for while Dr. Assheton had become at the age of 
thirty-five the first and final authority on his sub¬ 
ject, which was the functions and diseases of the 
brain, Louis Fielder at the same age was still on 
the threshold of achievement. Assheton, appar¬ 
ently without any brilliance at all, had by careful 
and incessant work arrived at the top of his pro¬ 
fession, while Fielder, brilliant at school, brilliant 
at college and brilliant ever afterwards, had never 
done anything. He was too eager, so it seemed to 
his friends, to set about the dreary work of patient 
investigation and logical deductions; he was for¬ 
ever guessing and prying, and striking out lumi¬ 
nous ideas, which he left burning, so to speak, to 
illumine the work of others. But at bottom, the 
two men had this compelling interest in common, 


12 


THE THING IN THE HALL 


namely, an insatiable curiosity after the unknown, 
perhaps the most potent bond yet devised between 
the solitary units that make up the race of man. 
Both — till the end — were absolutely fearless, 
and Dr. Assheton would sit by the bedside of the 
man stricken with bubonic plague to note the grad¬ 
ual surge of the tide of disease to the reasoning 
faculty with the same absorption as Fielder would 
study X-rays one week, flying machines the next, 
and spiritualism the third. The rest of the story, 
I think, explains itself — or does not quite do so. 
This, anyhow, is what I read to Dr. Assheton, be¬ 
ing the connected narrative of what he had himself 
told me. It is he, of course, who speaks. 

After I returned from Paris, where I had 
studied under Charcot, I set up practice at home. 
The general doctrine of hypnotism, suggestion, 
and cure by such means had been accepted even 
in London by this time, and, owing to a few 
papers I had written on the subject, together with 
my foreign diplomas, I found that I was a busy 
man almost as soon as I had arrived in town. 
Louis Fielder had his ideas about how I should 
make my debut (for he had ideas on every subject, 
and all of them original), and entreated me to 
come and live, not in the stronghold of doctors, 
' Chloroform Square,' as he called it, but down in 
Chelsea, where there was a house vacant next his 
own. 

“ ‘ Who cares where a doctor lives,' he said, 
‘ so long as he cures people? Besides you don't 


E. F. BENSON 


13 


believe in old methods; why believe in old locali¬ 
ties? Oh, there is an atmosphere of painless death 
in Chloroform Square! Come and make people 
live instead! And on most evenings I shall have 
so much to tell you; I can’t “ drop in ” across half 
London.’ 

“Now if you have been abroad for five years, 
it is a great deal to know that you have any 
intimate friend at all still left in the metropolis, 
and, as Louis said, to have that intimate friend 
next door is an excellent reason for going next 
door. Above all, I remembered from Cambridge 
days, what Louis’ ‘ dropping in ’ meant. Towards 
bed-time, when work was over, there would come 
a rapid step on the landing, and for an hour, or two 
hours, he would gush with ideas. He simply dif¬ 
fused life, which is ideas, wherever he went. He 
fed one’s brain, which is the one thing which mat¬ 
ters. Most people who are ill, are ill because their 
brain is starving, and the body rebels, and gets 
lumbago or cancer. That is the chief doctrine of 
my work such as it has been. All bodily disease 
springs from the brain. It is merely the brain that 
has to be fed and rested and exercised properly to 
make the body absolutely healthy and immune 
from all disease. But when the brain is affected, 
it is as useful to pour medicines down the sink as 
make your patient swallow them, unless — and 
this is a paramount limitation — unless he believes 
in them. 

“ I said something of the kind to Louis one 


14 


THE THING IN THE HALL 


night, when, at the end of a busy day, I had dined 
with him. We were sitting over coffee in the hall, 
or so it is called, where he takes his meals. Out¬ 
side, his house is just like mine, and ten thousand 
other small houses in London, but on entering, 
instead of finding a narrow passage with a door 
on one side, leading into the dining-room which 
again communicates with a small back room 
c^led ‘ the study,’ he has had the sense to elimi¬ 
nate all unnecessary walls, and consequently the 
whole ground floor of his house is one room, with 
stairs leading up to the first floor. Study, dining¬ 
room and passage have been knocked into one; 
you enter a big room from the front door. The 
only drawback is that the postman makes loud 
noises close to you, as you dine, and just as I made 
these commonplace observations to him about the 
effect of the brain on the body and the senses, 
there came a loud rap, somewhere close to me, 
that was startling. 

“ ‘ You ought to muffle your Imocker,’ I said, 
^ anyhow during the time of meals? 

“ Louis leaned back and laughed. 

^ There isn’t a knocker,’ he said. ^ You were 
startled a week ago, and said the same thing. So 
I took the knocker off. The letters slide in now. 
But you heard a knock, did you?’ 

^ Didn’t you?’ said I. 

'' ‘ Why certainly. But it wasn’t the postman. 
It was the Thing. I don’t know what it is. That 
makes it so interesting.’ 


E. F. BENSON 


15 


“ Now if there is one thing that the hypnotist, 
the believer in unexplained influences, detests and 
despises, it is the whole root-notion of spiritualism. 
Drugs are not more opposed to his belief than the 
exploded, discredited idea of the influence of 
spirits on our lives. And both are discredited for 
the same reason; it is easy to understand how 
brain can act on brain, just as it is easy to under¬ 
stand how body can act on body, so that there is 
no more difficulty in the reception of the idea that 
the strong mind can direct the weak one, than 
there is in the fact of a wrestler of greater strength 
overcoming one of less. But that spirits should 
rap at furniture and divert the course of events 
is as absurd as administering phosphorus to 
strengthen the brain. That was what I thought 
then. 

“ However, I felt sure it was the postman, and 
instantly rose and went to the door. There were 
no letters in the box, and I opened the door. The 
postman was just ascending the steps. He gave 
the letters into my hand. 

Louis was sipping his coffee when I came back 
to the table. 

“ ^ Have you ever tried table-turning?’ he asked. 
^ It’s rather odd.’ 

^ No, and I have not tried violet-leaves as a 
cure for cancer,’ I said. 

“ ^ Oh, try everything,’ he said. ^ I know that 
that is your plan, just as it is mine. All these 
years that you have been away, you have tried 


16 THE THING IN THE HALL 


all sorts of things, first with no faith, then with 
just a little faith, and finally with mountain- 
moving faith. Why, you didn’t believe in hypno¬ 
tism at all when you went to Paris.’ 

“ He rang the bell as he spoke, and his servant 
came up and cleared the table. While this was 
being done we strolled about the room, looking at 
prints, with applause for a Bartolozzi that Louis 
had bought in the New Cut, and dead silence over 
a ‘ Perdita ’ which he had acquired at considerable 
cost. Then he sat down again at the table on 
which we had dined. It was round, and mahogany- 
heavy, with a central foot divided into claws. 

‘ Try its weight,’ he said; ^ see if you can push 
it about.’ 

“ So I held the edge of it in my hands, and found 
that I could just move it. But that was all; it re¬ 
quired the exercise of a good deal of strength to 
stir it. 

“ ‘ Now put your hands on the top of it,’ he said, 
^ and see what you can do.’ 

“ I could not do anything, my fingers merely 
slipped about on it. But I protested at the idea of 
spending the evening thus. 

^ I would much sooner play chess or noughts 
and crosses with you,’ I said, ' or even talk about 
politics, than turn tables. You won’t mean to 
push, nor shall I, but we shall push without mean¬ 
ing to.’ 

“ Louis nodded. 

“ ' Just a minute,’ he said, ' let us both put our 


E. F. BENSON 


17 


fingers only on the top of the table and push for all 
we are worth, from right to left.^ 

We pushed. At least I pushed, and I observed 
his finger-nails. From pink they grew to white, 
because of the pressure he exercised. So I must 
assume that he pushed too. Once, as we tried this, 
the table creaked. But it did not move. 

Then there came a quick peremptory rap, not 
I thought on the front door, but somewhere in the 
room. 

‘ It^s the Thing,’ said he. 

“ Today, as I speak to you, I suppose it was. 
But on that evening it seemed only like a chal¬ 
lenge. I wanted to demonstrate its absurdity. 

“ ‘ For five years, on and off, I’ve been study¬ 
ing rank spiritualism,’ he said. ^ I haven’t told 
you before, because I wanted to lay before you 
certain phenomena, which I can’t explain, but 
which now seem to me to be at my command. 
You shall see and hear, and then decide if you will 
help me.’ 

^ And in order to let me see better, you are 
proposing to put out the lights,’ I said. 

“ ‘ Yes; you will see why.’ 

“ ^ I am here as a sceptic,’ said I. 

^ Seep away,’ said he. 

“ Next moment the room was in darkness, 
except for a very faint glow of firelight. The 
window-curtains were thick, and no street- 
illumination penetrated them, and the familiar, 
cheerful sounds of pedestrians and wheeled traffic 


18 THE THING IN THE HALL 


came in muffled. I was at the side of the table 
towards the door; Louis was opposite me, for I 
could see his figure dimly silhouetted against the 
glow from the smouldering fire. 

“ ^ Put your hands on the table,’ he said, 
’ quite lightly, and — how shall I say it?— expect.’ 

Still protesting in spirit, I expected. I could 
hear his breathing rather quickened, and it seemed 
to me odd that anybody could find excitement in 
standing in the dark over a large mahogany table, 
expecting. Then — through my finger-tips, laid 
lightly on the table, there began to come a faint 
vibration, like nothing so much as the vibration 
through the handle of a kettle when water is begin¬ 
ning to boil inside it. This got gradually more 
pronounced and violent till it was like the throb¬ 
bing of a motor-car. It seemed to give off a low 
humming note. Then quite suddenly the table 
seemed to slip from under my fingers and began 
very slowly to revolve. 

“ ^ Keep your hands on it and move with it,’ said 
Louis, and as he spok^ I saw his silhouette pass 
away from in front of the fire, moving as the 
table moved. 

For some moments there was silence, and we 
continued, rather absurdly, to circle round, keep¬ 
ing step, so to speak, with the table. Then Louis 
spoke again, and his voice was trembling with 
excitement. 

‘ Are you there?’ he said. 

“ There was no reply, of course, and he asked it 


E. F. BENSON 


19 


again. This time there came a rap like that which 
I had thought during dinner to be the postman. 
But whether it was that the room was dark, or that 
despite myself I felt rather excited too, it seemed 
to me now to be far louder than before. Also it 
appeared to come neither from here nor there, but 
to be diffused through the room. 

“ Then the curious revolving of the table ceased, 
but the intense, violent throbbing continued. My 
eyes were fixed on it, though owing to the dark¬ 
ness I could see nothing, when quite suddenly a 
little speck of light moved across it, so that for an 
instant I saw my own hands. Then came another, 
and another, like the spark of matches struck in 
the dark, or like fire-flies crossing the dusk in 
southern gardens. Then came another knock of 
shattering loudness, and the throbbing of the table 
ceased, and the lights vanished. 

^‘Such were the phenomena at the first seance 
at which I was present, but Fielder, it must be 
remembered, had been studying, ‘ expecting,’ he 
called it, for some years. To adopt spiritualistic 
language (which at that time I was very far from 
doing), he was the medium, I merely the observer, 
and all the phenomena I had seen that night were 
habitually produced or witnessed by him. I make 
this limitation since he told me that certain of 
them now appeared to be outside his own control 
altogether. The knockings would come when his 
mind, as far as he knew, was entirely occupied in 


20 THE THING IN THE HALL 


other matters, and sometimes he had even been 
awakened out of sleep by them. The lights were 
also independent of his volition. 

“ Now my theory at the time was that all these 
things were purely subjective in him, and that 
what he expressed by saying that they were out of 
his control, meant that they had become fixed and 
rooted in the unconscious self, of which we know so 
little, but which, more and more, we see to play 
so enormous a part in the life of man. In fact, it 
is not too much to say that the vast majority of 
our deeds spring, apparently without volition, from 
this unconscious self. All hearing is the uncon¬ 
scious exercise of the aural nerve, all seeing of the 
optic, all walking, all ordinary movement seem to 
be done without the exercise of will on our part. 
Nay more, should we take to some new form of 
progression, skating, for instance, the beginner 
will learn with falls and difficulty the outside 
edge, but within a few hours of his having learned 
his balance on it, he will give no more thought to 
what he learned so short a time ago as an acro¬ 
batic feat than he gives to the placing of one foot 
before the other. 

But to the brain specialist all this was in¬ 
tensely interesting, and to the student of hypno¬ 
tism, as I was, even more so, for (such was the 
conclusion I came to after this first seance), the 
fact that I saw and heard just what Louis saw and 
heard was an exhibition of thought-transference 
which in all my experience in the Charcot schools I 


E. F. BENSON 


21 


had never seen surpassed, if indeed rivalled. I 
knew that I was myself extremely sensitive to 
suggestion, and my part in it this evening I be¬ 
lieved to be purely that of the receiver of sugges¬ 
tions so vivid that I visualised and heard these 
phenomena which existed only in the brain of my 
friend. 

We talked over what had occurred upstairs. 
His view was that the Thing was trying to com¬ 
municate with us. According to him it was the 
Thing that moved the table and tapped, and made 
us see streaks of light. 

‘Yes, but the Thing,’ I interrupted, ‘ what 
do you mean? Is it a great-uncle — oh, I have 
seen so many relatives appear at seances, and 
heard so many of their dreadful platitudes — or 
what is it? A spirit? Whose spirit?’ 

“ Louis was sitting opposite to me, and on the 
little table before us there was an electric light. 
Looking at him I saw the pupil of his eye suddenly 
dilate. To the medical man — provided that some 
violent change in the light is not the cause of the 
dilation — that meant only one thing, terror. But 
it quickly resumed its normal proportion again. 

“ Then he got up, and stood in front of the fire. 

“ ‘ No, I don’t think it is great-uncle anybody,’ 
he said. ‘ I don’t know, as I told you, what the 
Thing is. But if you ask me what my conjecture 
is, it is that the Thing is an Elemental.’ 

“ ‘ And pray explain further. What is an 
Elemental?’ 


22 


THE THING IN THE HALL 


Once again his eye dilated. 

“ ‘ It will take two minutes/ he said. ^ But 
listen. There are good things in this world, are 
there not, and-bad things? Cancer, I take it is 
bad, and—and fresh air is good; honesty is good, 
lying is bad. Impulses of some sort direct both 
sides, and some power suggests the impulses. 
Well, I went into this spiritualistic business impar¬ 
tially. I learned to “ expect,’^ to throw open the 
door into the soul, and I said, “ Anyone may come 
in.^’ And I think Something has applied for admis¬ 
sion, the Thing that tapped and turned the table 
and struck matches, as you saw, across it. Now 
the control of the evil principle in the world is in 
the hands of a power which entrusts its errands to 
the things which I call Elementals. Oh, they have 
been seen; I doubt not that they will be seen again. 
I did not, and do not ask good spirits to come in. 
I don’t want The Church’s one foundation ” 
played on a musical box. Nor do I want an Ele¬ 
mental. I only threw open the door. I believe 
the Thing has come into my house and is estab¬ 
lishing communication with me. Oh, I want to go 
the whole hog. What is it? In the name of Satan, 
if necessary, what is it? I just want to know.’ 

What followed I thought then might easily be 
an invention of the imagination, but what I be¬ 
lieved to have happened was this. A piano with 
music on it was standing at the far end of the room 
by the door, and a sudden draught entered the 


E. F. BENSON 


23 


room, so strong that the leaves turned. Next the 
draught troubled a vase of daffodils, and the yel¬ 
low heads nodded. Then it reached the candles 
that stood close to us and they fluttered, burning 
blue and low. Then it reached me, and the 
draught was cold, and stirred my hair. Then it 
eddied, so to speak, and went across to Louis, and 
his hair also moved, as I could see. Then it went 
downwards towards the fire, and flames suddenly 
started up in its path, blown upwards. The rug 
by the fireplace flapped also. 

“ ‘ Funny, wasn^t it?^ he asked. 

‘ And has the Elemental gone up the chim¬ 
ney?’ said I. 

^ Oh, no,” said he, ^ the Thing only passed us.’ 

“ Then suddenly he pointed at the wall just 
behind my chair, and his voice cracked as he spoke. 

^ Look, what’s that?’ he said. ^ There on the 
wall.’ 

“ Considerably startled I turned in the direction 
of his shaking finger. The wall was pale grey in 
tone, and sharp-cut against it was a shadow that, 
as I looked, moved. It was like the shadow of 
some enormous slug, legless and fat, some two feet 
hi^ by about four feet long. Only at one end of 
it was a head shaped like the head of a seal, with 
open mouth and panting tongue. 

Then even as I looked it faded, and from 
somewhere close at hand there sounded another of 
those shattering knocks. 

“ For a moment after there was silence between 


24 


THE THING IN THE HALL 


us, and horror was thick as snow in the air. But, 
somehow, neither Louis nor I was frightened for 
more than one moment. The whole thing was so 
absorbingly interesting. 

‘ That’s what I mean by its being outside my 
control,’ he said. ^ I said I was ready for any — 
any visitor to come in, and by God, we’ve got a 
beauty.’ 

“Now I was still, even in spite of the appear¬ 
ance of this shadow, quite convinced that I was 
only taking observations of a most curious case 
of disordered brain accompanied by the most vivid 
and remarkable thought-transference. I believed 
that I had not seen a slug-like shadow at all, but 
that Louis had visualised this dreadful creature so 
intensely that I saw what he saw. I found also 
that his spiritualistic trash-books, which I thought 
a truer nomenclature than text-books, mentioned 
this as a common form for Elementals to take. 
He, on the other hand, was more firmly convinced 
than ever that we were dealing not with a subjec¬ 
tive but an objective phenomenon. 

“For the next six months or so we sat con¬ 
stantly, but made no further progress, nor did the 
Thing or its shadow appear again, and I began to 
feel that we were really wasting time. Then it 
occurred to me, to get in a so-called medium, 
induce hypnotic sleep, and see if we could learn 
anything further. This we did, sitting as before 


E. F. BENSON 


25 


round the dining-room table. The room was not 
quite dark, and I could see sufficiently clearly what 
happened. 

The medium, a young man, sat between Louis 
and myself, and without the slightest difficulty I 
put him into a light h 5 q)notic sleep. Instantly 
there came a series of the most terrific raps, and 
across the table there slid something more palpable 
than a shadow, with a faint luminance about it, as 
if the surface of it was smouldering. At the 
moment the medium’s face became contorted to a 
mask of hellish terror; mouth and eyes were both 
open, and the eyes were focused on something close 
to him. The Thing, waving its head, came closer 
and closer to him, and reached out towards his 
throat. Then with a yell of panic, and warding off 
this horror with his hands, the medium sprang up, 
but It had already caught hold, and for the mo¬ 
ment he could not get free. Then simultaneously 
Louis and I went to his aid, and my hands touched 
something cold and slimy. But pull as we could 
we could not get it away. There was no firm hand¬ 
hold to be taken; it was as if one tried to grasp 
slimy fur, and the touch of it was horrible, unclean, 
like a leper. Then, in a sort of despair, though I 
still could not believe that the horror was real, for 
it must be a vision of diseased imagination, I 
remembered that the switch of the four electric 
lights was close to my hand. I turned them all on. 
There on the floor lay the medium, Louis was 
kneeling by him with a face of wet paper, but 


26 


THE THING IN THE HALL 


there was nothing else there. Only the collar of 
the medium was crumpled and torn, and on his 
throat were two scratches that bled. 

The medium was still in hypnotic sleep, and I 
woke him. He felt at his collar, put his hand to 
his throat and found it bleeding, but, as I expected, 
knew nothing whatever of what had passed. We 
told him that there had been an unusual manifesta¬ 
tion, and he had, while in sleep, wrestled with 
something. We had got the result we wished for, 
and were much abliged to him. 

“ I never saw him again. A week after that he 
died of blood-poisoning. 

“ From that evening dates the second stage of 
this adventure. The Thing had materialised (I use 
again spiritualistic language which I did not use at 
the time). The huge slug, the Elemental, mani¬ 
fested itself no longer by knocks and waltzing 
tables, nor yet by shadows. It was there in a form 
that could be seen and felt. But it still — this 
was my strong point — was only a thing of twi¬ 
light; the sudden kindling of the electric light had 
shown us that there was nothing there. In this 
struggle perhaps the medium had clutched his own 
throat, perhaps I had grasped Louis’ sleeve, he 
mine. But though I said these things to myself, 
I am not sure that I believed them in the same way 
that I believe the sun will rise tomorrow. 

Now as a student of brain-functions and a 
student in hypnotic affairs, I ought perhaps to have 


E. F. BENSON 


27 


steadily and unremittingly pursued this extraor¬ 
dinary series of phenomena. But I had my prac¬ 
tice to attend to, and I found that with the best 
will in the world I could think of nothing else 
except the occurrence in the hall next door. So 
I refused to take part in any further seance with 
Louis. I had another reason also. For the last 
four or five months he was becoming depraved. 
I have been no prude or Puritan in my own life, 
and I hope I have not turned a Pharisaical shoul¬ 
der on sinners. But in all branches of life and 
morals, Louis had become infamous. He was 
turned out of a club for cheating at cards, and 
narrated the event to me with gusto. He had 
become cruel; he tortured his cat to death; he had 
become bestial. I used to shudder as I passed his 
house, expecting I knew not what fiendish thing to 
be looking at me from the window. 

Then came a night only a week ago, when I 
was awakened by an awful cry, swelling and fall¬ 
ing and rising again. It came from next door. I 
ran downstairs in my pyjamas, and out into the 
street. The policeman on the beat had heard it 
too, and it came from the hall of Louis^ house, the 
window of which was open. Together we burst 
the door in. You know what we found. The 
screaming had ceased but a moment before, but he 
was dead already. Both jugulars were severed, 
torn open. 

“ It was dawn, early and dusky when I got back 


28 


THE THING IN THE HALL 


to my house next door. Even as I went in some¬ 
thing seemed to push by me, something soft and 
slimy. It could not be Louis’ imagination this 
time. Since then I have seen glimpses of it every 
evening. I am awakened at night by tappings, and 
in the shadows in the corner of my room there sits 
something more substantial than a shadow.” 

Within an hour of my leaving Dr. Assheton, the 
quiet street was once more aroused by cries of 
terror and agony. He was already dead, and in 
no other manner than his friend, when they got 
into the house. 


THE WILLOWS 


By Algernon Blackwood 

After leaving Vienna, and long before you come 
to Buda-Pesth, the Danube enters a region of 
singular loneliness and desolation, where its waters 
spread away on all sides regardless of a main chan¬ 
nel, and the country becomes a swamp for miles 
upon miles, covered by a vast sea of low willow- 
bushes. On the big maps this deserted area is 
painted in a fluffy blue, growing fainter in colour 
as it leaves the banks, and across it may be seen in 
large straggling letters the word Sumpje, meaning 
marshes. 

In high flood this great acreage of sand, shingle- 
beds, and willow-grown islands is almost topped 
by the water, but in normal seasons the bushes 
bend and rustle in the free winds, showing their 
silver leaves to the sunshine in an ever-moving 
plain of bewildering beauty. These willows never 
attain to the dignity of trees; they have no rigid 
trunks; they remain humble bushes, with rounded 
tops and soft outline, swaying on slender stems 
that answer to the least pressure of the wind; 
supple as grasses, and so continually shifting that 
they somehow give the impression that the entire 
plain is moving and alive. For the wind sends 


^From The Listener. 


29 


30 


THE WILLOWS 


waves rising and falling over the whole surface, 
waves of leaves instead of waves of water, green 
swells like the sea, too, until the branches turn and 
lift, and then silvery white as their under-side 
turns to the sun. 

Happy to slip beyond the control of stern banks, 
the Danube here wanders about at will among the 
intricate network of channels intersecting the 
islands everywhere with broad avenues down 
which the waters pour with a shouting sound; 
making whirlpools, eddies, and foaming rapids; 
tearing at the sandy banks; carrying away masses 
of shore and willow-clumps; and forming new 
islands innumerable which shift daily in size 
and shape and possess at best an impermanent 
life, since the flood-time obliterates their very 
existence. 

Properly speaking, this fascinating part of the 
river’s life begins soon after leaving Pressburg, 
and we, in our Canadian canoe, with gipsy tent 
and frying-pan on board, reached it on the crest 
of a rising flood about mid-July. That very same 
morning, when the sky was reddening before sun¬ 
rise, we had slipped swiftly through still-sleeping 
Vienna, leaving it a couple of hours later a mere 
patch of smoke against the blue hills of the Wiener- 
wald on the horizon; we had breakfasted below 
Fischeramend under a grove of birch trees roaring 
in the wind; and had then swept on the tearing 
current past Orth, Hainburg, Petronell (the old 
Roman Carnuntum of Marcus Aurelius) and so 


ALGERNON BLACKWOOD 


31 


under the frowning heights of Theben on a spur 
of the Carpathians, where the March steals in 
quietly from the left and the frontier is crossed 
between Austria and Hungary. 

Racing along at twelve kilometres an hour soon 
took us well into Hungary, and the muddy waters 
— sure sign of flood — sent us aground on many 
a shingle-bed, and twisted us like a cork in many 
a sudden belching whirlpool before the towers of 
Pressburg (Hungarian, Poszony) showed against 
the sky; and then the canoe, leaping like a spirited 
horse, flew at top speed under the grey walls, 
negotiated safely the sunken chain of the Flie- 
gende Brucke ferry, turned the corner sharply to 
the left, and plunged on yellow foam into the 
wilderness of islands, sand-banks, and swamp-land 
beyond — the land of the willows. 

The change came suddenly, as when a series of 
bioscope pictures snaps down on the streets of 
a town and shifts without warning into the scenery 
of lake and forest. We entered the land of desola¬ 
tion on wings, and in less than half an hour there 
was neither boat nor fishing-hut, nor red roof, nor 
any single sign of human habitation and civilisa¬ 
tion within sight. The sense of remoteness from 
the world of human kind, the utter isolation, the 
fascination of this singular world of willows, winds 
and waters instantly laid its spell upon us both, 
so that we allowed laughingly to one another that 
we ought by rights to have held some special kind 
of passport to admit us, and that we had, some- 


32 


THE WILLOWS 


what audaciously, come without asking leave into 
a separate little kingdom of wonder and magic — 
a kingdom that was reserved for the use of others 
who had a right to it, with everywhere unwritten 
warnings to trespassers for those who had the 
imagination to discover them. 

Though still early in the afternoon, the cease¬ 
less buffetings of a most tempestuous wind made 
us feel weary, and we at once began casting about 
for a suitable camping-ground for the night. But 
the bewildering character of the islands made land¬ 
ing difficult; the swirling flood carried us in-shore 
and then swept us out again; the willow branches 
tore our hands as we seized them to stop the canoe, 
and we pulled many a yard of sandy bank into the 
water before at length we shot with a great side¬ 
ways blow from the wind into a backwater, and 
managed to beach the bows in a cloud of spray. 
Then we lay panting and laughing after our exer¬ 
tions on hot yellow sand, sheltered from the wind, 
and in the full blaze of a scorching sun, a cloudless 
blue sky above, and an immense army of dancing, 
shouting willow bushes closing in from all sides, 
shining with spray and clapping their thousand 
little hands as though to applaud the success of 
our efforts. 

What a river! ” I said to my companion, think¬ 
ing of all the way we had travelled from the source 
in the Black Forest, and how we had often been 
obliged to wade and push in the upper shallows at 
the beginning of June. 


ALGERNON BLACKWOOD 


33 


Won’t stand much nonsense now, will it?” he 
said, pulling the canoe a little farther into safety 
up the sand, and then composing himself for a nap. 

I lay by his side, happy and peaceful in the bath 
of the elements — water, wind, sand and the great 
fire of the sun — thinking of the long journey that 
lay behind us, and of the great stretch before us to 
the Black Sea, and how lucky I was to have such 
a delightful and charming travelling companion as 
my friend, the Swede. 

We had made many similar journeys together, 
but the Danube, more than any other river I knew, 
impressed us from the very beginning with its alive- 
ness. From its tiny bubbling entry into the world 
among the pinewood gardens of Donaueschingen, 
until this moment when it began to play the 
great river-game of losing itself among the deserted 
swamps, unobserved, unrestrained, it had seemed to 
us like following the growth of some living creature. 
Sleepy at first, but later developing violent desires 
as it became conscious of its deep soul, it rolled, like 
some huge fluid being, through all the countries 
we had passed, holding our little craft on its 
mighty shoulders, playing roughly with us some¬ 
times, yet always friendly and well-meaning till 
at length we had come inevitably to regard it as 
a Great Personage. 

How, indeed, could it be otherwise, since it told 
us so much of its secret life? At night we heard 
it singing to the moon as we lay in our tent, utter¬ 
ing that odd sibilant note peculiar to itself and 


34 


THE WILLOWS 


said to be caused by the rapid tearing of the 
pebbles along its bed, so great is its htirrying speed. 
We knew, too, the voice of its gurgling whirlpools, 
suddenly bubbling up on a surface previously quite 
calm; the roar of its shallows and swift rapids; 
its constant steady thundering below all mere 
surface sounds; and that ceaseless tearing of its 
icy waters at the banks. How it stood up and 
shouted when the rains fell flat upon its face! And 
how its laughter roared out when the wind blew 
upstream and tried to stop its growing speed! We 
knew all its sounds and voices, its tumblings and 
foamings, its unnecessary splashing against the 
bridges; that self-conscious chatter when there 
were hills to look on; the affected dignity of its 
speech when it passed through the little towns, 
far too important to laugh; and all these faint, 
sweet whisperings when the sun caught it fairly 
in some slow curve and poured down upon it till 
the steam rose. 

It was full of tricks, too, in its early life before 
the great world knew it. There were places in 
the upper reaches among the Swabian foresIts, 
when yet the first whispers of its destiny had not 
reached it, where it elected to disappear through 
holes in the ground, to appear again on the other 
side of the porous limestone hills and start a new 
river with another name; leaving, too, so little 
water in its own bed that we had to climb out 
and wade and push the canoe through miles of 
shallows 1 


ALGERNON BLACKWOOD 


35 


And a chief pleasure, in those early days of its 
irresponsible youth, was to lie low, like Brer Fox, 
just before the little turbulent tributaries came to 
join it from the Alps, and to refuse to acknowledge 
them when in, but to run for miles side by side, 
the dividing line well marked, the very levels dif¬ 
ferent, the Danube utterly declining to recognise 
the new-comer. Below Passau, however, it gave 
up this particular trick, for there the Inn comes 
in with a thundering power impossible to ignore, 
and so pushes and incommodes the parent river 
that there is hardly room for them in the long 
twisting gorge that follows, and the Danube is 
shoved this way and that against the cliffs, and 
forced to hurry itself with great waves and much 
dashing to and fro in order to get through in time. 
And during the fight our canoe slipped down from 
its shoulder to its breast, and had the time of its 
life among the struggling waves. But the Inn 
taught the old river a lesson, and after Passau it 
no longer pretended to ignore new arrivals. 

This was many days back, of course, and since 
then we had come to know other aspects of the 
great creature, and across the Bavarian wheat 
plain of Straubing she wandered so slowly under 
the blazing June sun that we could well imagine 
only the surface inches were water, while below 
there moved, concealed as by a silken mantle, a 
whole army of Undines, passing silently and unseen 
down to the sea, and very leisurely too, lest they 
be discovered. 


36 


THE WILLOWS 


Much, too, we forgave her because of her friend¬ 
liness to the birds and animals that haunted the 
shores. Cormorants lined the banks in lonely 
places in rows like short black palings; grey crows 
crowded the shingle beds; storks stood fishing in 
the vistas of shallower water that opened up 
between the islands, and hawks, swans, and marsh 
birds of all sorts filled the air with glinting wings 
and singing, petulant cries. It was impossible to 
feel annoyed with the river’s vagaries after seeing 
a deer leap with a splash into the water at sunrise 
and swim past the bows of the canoe; and often 
we saw fawns peering at us from the underbrush, 
or looked straight into the brown eyes of a stag 
as we charged full tilt round a corner and entered 
another reach of the river. Foxes, too, everywhere 
haunted the banks, tripping daintily among the 
driftwood and disappearing so suddenly that it 
was impossible to see how they managed it. 

But now, after leaving Pressburg, everything 
changed a little, and the Danube became more 
serious. It ceased trifling. It was half-way to the 
Black Sea, within scenting distance almost of other, 
stranger countries where no tricks would be 
permitted or understood. It became suddenly 
grown-up, and claimed our respect and even our 
awe. It broke out into three arms, for one thing, 
that only met again a hundred kilometres farther 
down, and for a canoe there were no indications 
which one was intended to be followed. 

“ If you take a side channel,” said the Hun- 


ALGERNON BLACKWOOD 


37 


garian officer we met in the Pressburg shop while 
buying provisions, “ you may find yourselves, when 
the flood subsides, forty miles from anywhere, high 
and dry, and you may easily starve. There are 
no people, no farms, no fishermen. I warn you 
not to continue. The river, too, is still rising, 
and this wind will increase.’’ 

The rising river did not alarm us in the least, 
but the matter of being left high and dry by a 
sudden subsidence of the waters might be serious, 
and we had consequently laid in an extra stock of 
provisions. For the rest, the officer’s prophecy 
held true, and the wind, blowing down a per¬ 
fectly clear sky, increased steadily till it reached 
the dignity of a westerly gale. 

It was earlier than usual when we camped, for 
the sun was a good hour or two from the horizon, 
and leaving my friend still asleep on the hot sand, 
I wandered about in desultory examination of our 
hotel. The island, I found, was less than an acre 
in extent, a mere sandy bank, standing some two 
or three feet above the level of the river. The 
far end, pointing into the sunset, was covered with 
flying spray which the tremendous wind drove 
off the crests of the broken waves. It was tri¬ 
angular in shape, with the apex upstream. 

I stood there for several minutes, watching the 
impetuous crimson flood bearing down with a 
shouting roar, dashing in waves against the bank 
as though to sweep it bodily away, and then swirl¬ 
ing by in two foaming streams on either side. The 


38 


THE WILLOWS 


ground seemed to shake with the shock and rush 
while the furious movement of the willow bushes 
as the wind poured over them increased the curious 
illusion that the island itself actually moved. 
Above, for a mile or two, I could see the great 
river descending upon me: it was like looking up 
the slope of a sliding hill, white with foam, and 
leaping up everywhere to show itself to the sun. 

The rest of the island was too thickly grown 
with willows to make walking pleasant, but I 
made the tour, nevertheless. From the lower end 
the light, of course, changed, and the river looked 
dark and angry. Only the backs of the flying 
waves were visible, streaked with foam, and pushed 
forcibly by the great puffs of wind that fell upon 
them from behind. From a short mile it was 
visible, pouring in and out among the islands, and 
then disappearing with a huge sweep into the wil¬ 
lows, which closed about it like a herd of monstrous 
antediluvian creatures crowding down to drink.. 
They made me think of gigantic sponge-like 
growths that sucked the river up into themselves. 
They caused it to vanish from sight. They herded 
there together in such overpowering numbers. 

Altogether it was an impressive scene, with its 
utter loneliness, its bizarre suggestion; and as I 
gazed, long and curiously, a singular emotion began 
to stir somewhere in the depths of me. Midway 
in my delight of the wild beauty there crept, 
unbidden and unexplained, a curious feeling of 
disquietude, almost of alarm. 


ALGERNON BLACKWOOD 


39 


A rising river, perhaps, always suggests some¬ 
thing of the ominous: many of the little islands 
I saw before me would probably have been swept 
away by the morning; this resistless, thundering 
flood of water touched the sense of awe. Yet I 
was aware that my uneasiness lay deeper far than 
the emotions of awe and wonder. It was not that 
I felt. Nor had it directly to do with the power 
of the driving wind — this shouting hurricane that 
might almost carry up a few acres of willows into 
the air and scatter them like so much chaff over 
the landscape. The wind was simply enjoying 
itself, for nothing rose out of the flat landscape to 
stop it, and I was conscious of sharing its great 
game with a kind of pleasurable excitement. Yet 
this novel emotion had nothing to do with the 
wind. Indeed, so vague was the sense of distress 
I experienced that it was impossible to trace it to 
its source and deal with it accordingly, though I 
was aware somehow that it had to do with my 
realisation of our utter insignificance before this 
unrestrained power of the elements about me. 
The huge-grown river had something to do with 
it too — a vague, unpleasant idea that we had 
somehow trifled with these great elemental forces 
in whose power we lay helpless every hour of the 
day and night. For here, indeed, they were gigan¬ 
tically at play together, and the sight appealed to 
the imagination. 

But my emotion, so far as I could understand 
it, seemed to attach itself more particularly to 


40 


THE WILLOWS 


the willow bushes, to these acres and acres of 
willows, crowding, so thickly growing there, swarm¬ 
ing everywhere the eye could reach, pressing upon 
the river as though to suffocate it, standing in 
dense array mile after mile beneath the sky, 
watching, waiting, listening. And, apart quite from 
the elements, the willows connected themselves 
subtly with my malaise, attacking the mind 
insidiously somehow by reason of their vast 
numbers, and contriving in some way or other 
to represent to the imagination a new and mighty 
power, a power, moreover, not altogether friendly 
to us. 

Great revelations of nature, of course, never 
fail to impress in one way or another, and I was 
no stranger to moods of the kind. Mountains 
overawe and oceans terrify, while the mystery of 
great forests exercises a spell peculiarly its own. 
But all these, at one point or another, somewhere 
link on intimately with human life and human 
experience. They stir comprehensible, even if 
alarming, emotions. They tend on the whole to 
exalt. 

With this multitude of willows, however, it was 
something far different, I felt. Some essence 
emanated from them that besieged the heart. A 
sense of awe awakened, true, but of awe touched 
somewhere by a vague terror. Their serried ranks, 
growing everywhere darker about me as the shad¬ 
ows deepened, moving furiously yet softly in the 
wind, woke in me the curious and unwelcome sug- 


ALGERNON BLACKWOOD 


41 


gestion that we had trespassed here upon the bor¬ 
ders of an alien world, a world where we were 
intruders, a world where we were not wanted or 
invited to remain — where we ran grave risks 
perhaps! 

The feeling, however, though it refused to yield 
its meaning entirely to analysis, did not at the 
time trouble me by passing into menace. Yet it 
never left me quite, even during the very practical 
business of putting up the tent in a hurricane of 
wind and building a fire for the stew-pot. It re¬ 
mained, just enough to bother and perplex, and to 
rob a most delightful camping-ground of a good 
portion of its charm. To my companion, however, 
I said nothing, for he was a man I considered 
devoid of imagination. In the first place I could 
never have explained to him what I meant, and in 
the second, he would have laughed stupidly at me 
if I had. 

There was a slight depression in the centre of 
the island, and here we pitched the tent. The sur¬ 
rounding willows broke the wind a bit. 

“ A poor camp,’’ observed the imperturbable 
Swede when at last the tent stood upright; no 
stones and precious little firewood. I’m for moving 
on early tomorrow — eh? This sand won’t hold 
anything.” 

But the experience of a collapsing tent at mid¬ 
night had taught us many devices, and we made the 
cosy gipsy house as safe as possible, and then set 
about collecting a store of wood to last till bed- 


42 


THE WILLOWS 


time. Willow bushes drop no branches, and drift¬ 
wood was our only source of supply. We hunted 
the shores pretty thoroughly. Everywhere the 
banks were crumbling as the rising flood tore 
at them and carried away great portions with a 
splash and a gurgle. 

The island’s much smaller than when we 
landed,” said the accurate Swede. It won’t last 
long at this rate. We’d better drag the canoe close 
to the tent, and be ready to start at a moment’s 
notice. / shall sleep in my clothes.” 

He was a little distance off, climbing along the 
bank, and I heard his rather jolly laugh as he spoke. 

“ By Jove!” I heard him call a moment later, 
and turned to see what had caused his exclamation. 
But for the moment he was hidden by the willows, 
and I could not find him. 

What in the world’s this?” I heard him cry 
again, and this time his voice had become serious.' 

I ran up quickly and joined him on the bank. 
He was looking over the river, pointing at some¬ 
thing in the water. 

“ Good Heavens, it’s a man’s body!” he cried 
excitedly. “ Look!” 

A black thing, turning over and over in the 
foaming waves, swept rapidly past. It kept disap¬ 
pearing and coming up to the surface again. It 
was about twenty feet from the shore, and just as 
it was opposite to where we stood it lurched round 
and looked straight at us. We saw its eyes reflect¬ 
ing the sunset, and gleaming an odd yellow as the 


ALGERNON BLACKWOOD 


43 


body turned over. Then it gave a swift, gulping 
plunge, and dived out of sight in a flash. 

An otter, by gad!’^ we exclaimed in the same 
breath, laughing. 

It was an otter, alive, and out on the hunt; yet 
it had looked exactly like the body of a drowned 
man turning helplessly in the current. Far below 
it came to the surface once again, and we saw its 
black skin, wet and shining in the sunlight. 

Then, too, just as we turned back, our arms full 
of driftwood, another thing happened to recall us 
to the river bank. This time it really was a man, 
and what was more, a man in a boat. Now a small 
boat on the Danube was an unusual sight at any 
time, but here in this deserted region, and at flood 
time, it was so unexpected as to constitute a real 
event. We stood and stared. 

Whether it was due to the slanting sunlight, 
or the refraction from the wonderfully illumined 
water, I cannot say, but, whatever the cause, I 
found it difficult to focus my sight properly upon 
the flying apparition. It seemed, however, to be 
a man standing upright in a sort of flat-bottomed 
boat, steering with a long oar, and being carried 
down the opposite shore at a tremendous pace. 
He apparently was looking across in our direction, 
but the distance was too great and the light too 
uncertain for us to make out very plainly what he 
was about. It seemed to me that he was gesticu¬ 
lating and making signs at us. His voice came 
across the water to us shouting something furi- 


44 


THE WILLOWS 


ously, but the wind drowned it so that no single 
word was audible. There was something curious 
about the whole appearance — man, boat, signs, 
voice — that made an impression on me out of all 
proportion to its cause. 

“ He^s crossing himself!’^ I cried. Look, he^s 
making the sign of the Cross! 

“ I believe you’re right,” the Swede said, shading 
his eyes with his hand and watching the man out 
of sight. He seemed to be gone in a moment, 
melting away down there into the sea of willows 
where the sun caught them in the bend of the river 
and turned them into a great crimson wall of 
beauty. Mist, too, had begun to rise, so that the 
air was hazy. 

“ But what in the world is he doing at nightfall 
on this flooded river?” I said, half to myself. 

Where is he going at such a time, and what did 
he mean by his signs and shouting? D’you think 
he wishes to warn us about something?” 

He saw our smoke, and thought we were spirits 
probably,” laughed my companion. ‘‘ These Hun¬ 
garians believe in all sorts of rubbish; you remem¬ 
ber the shopwoman at Pressburg warning us that 
no one ever landed here because it belonged to 
some sort of beings outside man’s world! I suppose 
they believe in fairies and elementals, possibly 
demons too. That peasant in the boat saw people 
on the islands for the first time in his life,” he 
added, after a slight pause, “ and it scared him, 
that’s all.” 


ALGERNON BLACKWOOD 


45 


The Swede’s tone of voice was not convincing, 
and his manner lacked something that was usually 
there. I noted the change instantly while he 
talked, though without being able to label it 
precisely. 

If they had enough imagination,” I laughed 
loudly — I remember trying to make as much 
noise as I could — they might well people a place 
like this with the old gods of antiquity. The 
Romans must have haunted all this region more or 
less with their shrines and sacred groves and ele¬ 
mental deities.” 

The subject dropped and we returned to our 
stewpot, for my friend was not given to imagina¬ 
tive conversation as a rule. Moreover, just then 
I remember feeling distinctly glad that he was 
not imaginative; his stolid, practical nature sud¬ 
denly seemed to me welcome and comforting. It 
was an admirable temperament, I felt: he could 
steer down rapids like a red Indian, shoot dan¬ 
gerous bridges and whirlpools better than any 
white man I ever saw in a canoe. He was a grand 
fellow for an adventurous trip, a tower of strength 
when untoward things happened. I looked at his 
strong face and light curly hair as he staggered 
along under his pile of driftwood (twice the size of 
mine!) and I experienced a feeling of relief. Yes, 
I was distinctly glad just then that the Swede was 
— what he was, and that he never made remarks 
that suggested more than they said. 

The river’s still rising, though,” he added, as 


46 


THE WILLOWS 


if following out some thougkts of his own, and 
dropping his load with a gasp. This island will 
be under water in two days if it goes on.” 

“ I wish the wind would go down,” I said. “ I 
don’t care a fig for the river.” 

The flood, indeed, had no terrors for us; we 
could get off at ten minutes’ notice, and the more 
water the better we liked it. It meant an increas¬ 
ing current and the obliteration of the treacherous 
shingle-beds that so often threatened to tear the 
bottom out of our canoe. 

Contrary to our expectations, the wind did not 
go down with the sun. It seemed to increase with 
the darkness, howling overhead and shaking the 
willows round us like straws. Curious sounds 
accompanied it sometimes, like the explosion of 
heavy guns, and it fell upon the water and the 
island in great flat blows of immense power. It 
made me think of the sounds a planet must make, 
could we only hear it, driving along through space. 

But the sky kept wholly clear of clouds, and 
soon after supper the full moon rose up in the east 
and covered the river and the plain of shouting wil¬ 
lows with a light like the day. 

We lay on the sandy patch beside the fire, smok¬ 
ing, listening to the noises of the night round us, 
and talking happily of the journey we had already 
made, and of our plans ahead. The map lay spread 
in the door of the tent, but the high wind made it 
hard to study, and presently we lowered the cur¬ 
tain and extinguished the lantern. The firelight 


ALGERNON BLACKWOOD 


47 


was enough to smoke and see each other’s faces by, 
and the sparks flew about overhead like fireworks. 
A few yards beyond the river gurgled and hissed, 
and from time to time a heavy splash announced 
the falling away of further portions of the bank. 

Our talk, I noticed, had to do with the far-away 
scenes and incidents of our first camps in the Black 
Forest, or of other subjects altogether remote from 
the present setting, for neither of us spoke of the 
actual moment more than was necessary — almost 
as though we had agreed tacitly to avoid discussion 
of the camp and its incidents. Neither the otter 
nor the boatman, for instance, received the honour 
of a single mention, though ordinarily these would 
have furnished discussion for the greater part of 
the evening. They were, of course, distinct events 
in such a place. 

The scarcity of wood made it a business to keep 
the fire going, for the wind, that drove the smoke 
in our faces wherever we sat, helped at the same 
time to make a forced draught. We took it in turn 
to make foraging expeditions into the darkness, 
and the quantity the Swede brought back always 
made me feel that he took an absurdly long time 
finding it; for the fact was I did not care much 
about being left alone, and yet it always seemed 
to be my turn to grub about among the bushes or 
scramble along the slippery banks in the moon¬ 
light. The long day’s battle with wind and water 
— such wind and such water!— had tired us both, 
and an early bed was the obvious programme. 


48 


THE WILLOWS 


Yet neither of us made the move for the tent. 
We lay there, tending the fire, talking in desultory 
fashion, peering about us into the dense willow 
bushes, and listening to the thunder of wind and 
river. The loneliness of the place had entered our 
very bones, and silence seemed natural, for after 
a bit the sound of our voices became a trifle unreal 
and forced; whispering would have been the fitting 
mode of communication, I felt, and the human 
voice, always rather absurd amid the roar of the 
elements, now carried with it something almost 
illegitimate. It was like talking out loud in church, 
or in some place where it was not lawful, perhaps 
not quite safe, to be overheard. 

The eeriness of this lonely island, set among a 
million willows, swept by a hurricane, and sur¬ 
rounded by hurrying deep waters, touched us both, 
I fancy. Untrodden by man, almost unknown to 
man, it lay there beneath the moon, remote from 
human influence, on the frontier of another world, 
an alien world, a world tenanted by willows only 
and the souls of willows. And we, in our rashness, 
had dared to invade it, even to make use of it! 
Something more than the power of its mystery 
stirred in me as I lay on the sand, feet to fire, 
and peered up through the leaves at the stars. For 
the last time I rose to get firewood. 

When this has burnt up,^^ I said firmly, I 
shall turn in,’’ and my companion watched me 
lazily as I moved off into the surrounding shadows. 

For an unimaginative man I thought he seemed 


ALGERNON BLACKWOOD 


49 


unusually receptive that night, unusually open to 
suggestion of things other than sensory. He too 
was touched by the beauty and loneliness of the 
place. I was not altogether pleased, I remember, 
to recognise this slight change in him, and instead 
of immediately collecting sticks, I made my way 
to the far point of the island where the moonlight 
on plain and river could be seen to better advan¬ 
tage. The desire to be alone had come suddenly 
upon me; my former dread returned in force; 
there was a vague feeling in me I wished to face 
and probe to the bottom. 

When I reached the point of sand jutting out 
among the waves, the spell of the place descended 
upon me with a positive shock. No mere 
“ scenery ” could have produced such an effect. 
There was something more here, something to 
alarm. 

I gazed across the waste of wild waters; I 
watched the whispering willows; I heard the cease¬ 
less beating of the tireless wind; and one and all, 
each in its own way, stirred in me this sensation 
of a strange distress. But the willows especially: 
for ever they went on chattering and talking among 
themselves, laughing a little, shrilly crying out, 
sometimes sighing — but what it was they made 
so much to-do about belonged to the secret life 
of the great plain they inhabited. And it was 
utterly alien to the world I knew, or to that of the 
wild yet kindly elements. They made me think 
of a host of beings from another plane of life, 


50 


THE WILLOWS 


another evolution altogether, perhaps, all discuss¬ 
ing a mystery known only to themselves. I 
watched them moving busily together, oddly shak¬ 
ing their big bushy heads, twirling their myriad 
leaves even when there was no wind. They moved 
of their own will as though alive, and they touched, 
by some incalculable method, my own keen sense 
of the horrible. 

There they stood in the moonlight, like a vast 
army surrounding our camp, shaking their innumer¬ 
able silver spears defiantly, formed all ready for 
an attack. 

The psychology of places, for some imaginations 
at least, is very vivid; for the wanderer, especially, 
camps have their “ note ’’ either of welcome or 
rejection. At first it may not always be apparent, 
because the busy preparations of tent and cooking 
prevent, but with the first pause — after supper 
usually — it comes and announces itself. And the 
note of this willow-camp now became unmistakably 
plain to me: we were interlopers, trespassers; we 
were not welcomed. The sense of unfamiliarity 
grew upon me as I stood there watching. We 
touched the frontier of a region where our presence 
was resented. For a night’s lodging we might 
perhaps be tolerated; but for a prolonged and 
inquisitive stay — no! by all the gods of the trees 
and the wilderness, no! We were the first human 
influences upon this island, and we were not 
wanted. The willows were against us. 

Strange thoughts like these, bizarre fancies. 


ALGERNON BLACKWOOD 


51 


borne I know not whence, found lodgment in my 
mind as I stood listening. What, I thought, if, 
after all, these crouching willows proved to be 
alive; if suddenly they should rise up, like a swarm 
of living creatures, marshalled by the gods whose 
territory we had invaded, sweep towards us off the 
vast swamps, booming overhead in the night — 
and then settle down! As I looked it was so easy 
to imagine they actually moved, crept nearer, 
retreated a little, huddled together in masses, 
hostile, waiting for the great wind that should 
finally start them a-running. I could have sworn 
their aspect changed a little, and their ranks deep¬ 
ened and pressed more closely together. 

The melancholy shrill cry of a night-bird sounded 
overhead, and suddenly I nearly lost my balance 
as the piece of bank I stood on fell with a great 
splash into the river, undermined by the flood. 
I stepped back just in time, and went on hunting 
for firewood again, half-laughing at the odd fancies 
that crowded so thickly into my mind and cast 
their spell upon me. I recalled the Swede’s remark 
about moving on next day, and I was just thinking 
that I fully agreed with him, when I turned with 
a start and saw the subject of my thoughts standing 
immediately in front of me. -He was quite close. 
The roar of the elements had covered his approach. 

“ You’ve been gone so long,” he shouted above 
the wind, I thought something must have hap¬ 
pened to you.” 

But there was that in his tone, and a certain 


52 


THE WILLOWS 


look in his face as well, that conveyed to me more 
than his actual words, and in a flash I understood 
the real reason for his coming. It was because 
the spell of the place had entered his soul too, and 
he did not like being alone. 

River still rising,” he cried, pointing to the 
flood in the moonlight, and the wind’s simply 
awful.” 

He always said the same things, but it was the 
cry for companionship that gave the real impor¬ 
tance to his words. 

“ Luckily,” I cried back, our tent’s in the 
hollow. I think it’ll hold all right.” I added some¬ 
thing about the difficulty of finding wood, in order 
to explain my absence, but the wind caught my 
words and flung them across the river, so that he 
did not hear, but just looked at me through the 
branches, nodding his head. 

Lucky if we get away without disaster!” he 
shouted, or words to that effect; and I remember 
feeling half angry with him for putting the thought 
into words, for it was exactly what I felt myself. 
There was disaster impending somewhere, and the 
sense of presentiment lay unpleasantly upon me. 

We went back to the fire and made a final blaze, 
poking it up with our feet. We took a last look 
round. But for the wind the heat would have been 
unpleasant. I put this thought into words, and I 
remember my friend’s reply struck me oddly: that 
he would rather have the heat, the ordinary July 
weather, than this “ diabolical wind.” 


ALGERNON BLACKWOOD 


53 


Everything was snug for the night; the canoe 
lying turned over beside the tent, with both yellow 
paddles beneath her; the provision sack hanging 
from a willow-stem, and the washed-up dishes 
removed to a safe distance from the fire, all ready 
for the morning meal. 

We smothered the embers of the fire with sand, 
and then turned in. The flap of the tent door was 
up, and I saw the branches and the stars and the 
white moonlight. The shaking willows and the 
heavy buffetings of the wind against our taut little 
house were the last things I remembered as sleep 
came down and covered all with its soft and 
delicious forgetfulness. 

Suddenly I found myself lying awake, peering 
from my sandy mattress through the door of the 
tent. I looked at my watch pinned against the 
canvas, and saw by the bright moonlight that it 
was past twelve o’clock — the threshold of a new 
day — and I had therefore slept a couple of hours. 
The Swede was asleep still beside me; the wind 
howled as before; something plucked at my heart 
and made me feel afraid. There was a sense of 
disturbance in my immediate neighbourhood. 

I sat up quickly and looked out. The trees 
were swaying violently to and fro as the gusts 
smote them, but our little bit of green canvas lay 
snugly safe in the hollow, for the wind passed over 
it without meeting enough resistance to make it 
vicious. The feeling of disquietude did not pass, 
however, and I crawled quietly out of the tent to 


54 


THE WILLOWS 


see if our belongings were safe. I moved care¬ 
fully so as not to waken my companion. A curious 
excitement was on me. 

I was halfway out, kneeling on all fours, when 
my eye first took in that the tops of the bushes 
opposite, with their moving tracery of leaves, made 
shapes against the sky. I sat back on my haunches 
and stared. It was incredible, surely, but there, 
opposite and slightly above me, were shapes of 
some indeterminate sort among the willows, and 
as the branches swayed in the wind they seemed 
to group themselves about these shapes, forming 
a series of monstrous outlines that shifted rapidly 
beneath the moon. Close, about fifty feet in front 
of me, I saw these things. 

My first instinct was to waken my companion, 
that he too might see them, but something made 
me hesitate — the sudden realisation, probably, 
that I should not welcome corroboration; and 
meanwhile I crouched there staring in* amazement 
with smarting eyes. I was wide awake. I remem¬ 
ber saying to myself that I was not dreaming. 

They first became properly visible, these huge 
figures, just within the tops of the bushes — 
immense, bronze-coloured, moving, and wholly 
independent of the swaying of the branches. I 
saw them plainly and noted, now I came to examine 
them more calmly, that they were very much larger 
than human, and indeed that something in their 
appearance proclaimed them to be not human at 
all. Certainly they were not merely the moving 


ALGERNON BLACKWOOD 


55 


tracery of the branches against the moonlight. 
They shifted independently. They rose upwards 
in a continuous stream from earth to sky, vanishing 
utterly as soon as they reached the dark of the 
sky. They were interlaced one with another, 
making a great column, and I saw their limbs 
and huge bodies melting in and out of each other, 
forming this serpentine line that bent and swayed 
and twisted spirally with the contortions of the 
wind-tossed trees. They were nude, fluid shapes, 
passing up the bushes, within the leaves almost — 
rising up in a living column into the heavens. 
Their faces I never could see. Unceasingly they 
poured upwards, swaying in great bending curves, 
with a hue of dull bronze upon their skins. 

I stared, trying to force every atom of vision 
from my eyes. For a long time I thought they 
must every moment disappear and resolve them¬ 
selves into the movements of the branches and 
prove to be an optical illusion. I searched every¬ 
where for a proof of reality, when all the while 
I understood quite well that the standard of reality 
had changed. For the longer I looked the more 
certain I became that these figures were real and 
living, though perhaps not according to the 
standards that the camera and biologist would 
insist upon. 

Far from feeling fear, I was possessed with a 
sense of awe and wonder such as I have never 
known. I seemed to be gazing at the personified 
elemental forces of this haunted and primeval 


56 


THE WILLOWS 


region. Our intrusion had stirred the powers of 
the place into activity. It was we who were the 
cause of the disturbance, and my brain filled to 
bursting with stories and legends of the spirits 
and deities of places that have been acknowledged 
and worshipped by men in all ages of the world’s 
history. But, before I could arrive at any pos¬ 
sible explanation, something impelled me to go 
farther out, and I crept forward on to the sand 
and stood upright. I felt the ground still warm 
under my bare feet; the wind tore at my hair and 
face; and the sound of the river burst upon my 
ears with a sudden roar. These things, I knew, 
were real, and proved that my senses were acting 
normally. Yet the figures still rose from earth 
to heaven, silent, majestically, in a great spiral of 
grace and strength that overwhelmed me at length 
with a genuine deep emotion of worship. I felt 
that I must fall down and worship — absolutely 
worship. 

Perhaps in another minute I might have done 
so, when a gust of wind swept against me with 
such force that it blew me sideways, and I nearly 
stumbled and fell. It seemed to shake the dream 
violently out of me. At least it gave me another 
point of view somehow. The figures still remained, 
still ascended into heaven from the heart of the 
night, but my reason at last began to assert itself. 
It must be a subjective experience, I argued—; 
none the less real for that, but still subjective. The] 
moonlight and the branches combined to work 


ALGERNON BLACKWOOD 57 

out these pictures upon the mirror of my imagina¬ 
tion, and for some reason I projected them out¬ 
wards and made them appear objective. I knew 
this must be the case, of course. I was the subject 
of a vivid and interesting hallucination. I took 
courage, and began to move forward across the 
open patches of sand. By Jove, though, was it 
all hallucination? Was it merely subjective? Did 
not my reason argue in the old futile way from 
the little standard of the known? 

I only know that a great column of figures 
ascended darkly into the sky for what seemed a 
very long period of time, and with a very complete 
measure of reality as most men are accustomed to 
gauge reality. Then suddenly they were gone! 

And, once they were gone and the immediate 
wonder of their great presence had passed, fear 
came down upon me with a cold rush. The 
esoteric meaning of this lonely and haunted region 
suddenly flamed up within me, and I began to 
tremble dreadfully. I took a quick look round — 
a look of horror that came near to panic — cal¬ 
culating vainly ways of escape; and then, realising 
how helpless I was to achieve anything really 
effective, I crept back silently into the tent and 
lay down again upon my sandy mattress, first 
lowering the door-curtain to shut out the sight 
of the willows in the moonlight, and then burying 
my head as deeply as possible beneath the blankets 
to deaden the sound of the terrifying wind. 

As though further to convince me that I had 


58 


THE WILLOWS 


not been dreaming, I remember that it was a long 
time before I fell again into a troubled and rest¬ 
less sleep; and even then only the upper crust of 
me slept, and underneath there was something that 
never quite lost consciousness, but lay alert and 
on the watch. 

But this second time I jumped up with a genuine 
start of terror. It was neither the wind nor the 
river that woke me, but the slow approach of 
something that caused the sleeping portion of me 
to grow smaller and smaller till at last it vanished 
altogether, and I found myself sitting bolt upright 
— listening. 

Outside there was a sound of multitudinoqs little 
patterings. They had been coming, I was aware, 
for a long time, and in my sleep they had first 
become audible. I sat there nervously wide awake 
as though I had not slept at all. It seemed to me 
that my breathing came with difficulty, and that 
there was a great weight upon the surface of my 
body. In spite of the hot night I felt clammy with 
cold and shivered. Something surely was pressing 
steadily against the sides of the tent and weighing 
down upon it from above. Was it the body of the 
wind? Was this the pattering rain, the dripping 
of the leaves? The spray blown from the river 
by the wind and gathering in big drops? I thought 
quickly of a dozen things. 

Then suddenly the explanation leaped into my 
mind; a bough from the poplar, the only large 
tree on the island, had fallen with the wind. Still 


ALGERNON BLACKWOOD 


59 


half caught by the other branches, it would fall 
with the next gust and crush us, and meanwhile 
its leaves brushed and tapped upon the tight 
canvas surface of the tent. I raised the loose flap 
and rushed out, calling to the Swede to follow. 

But when I got out and stood upright I saw 
that the tent was free. There was no hanging 
bough; there was no rain or spray; nothing 
approached. 

A cold, grey light filtered down through the 
bushes and lay on the faintly gleaming sand. Stars 
still crowded the sky directly overhead, and the 
wind howled magnificently, but the fire no longer 
gave out any glow, and I saw the east reddening 
in streaks through the trees. Several hours must 
have passed since I stood there before watching 
the ascending figures, and the memory of it now 
came back to me horribly, like an evil dream. Oh, 
how tired it made me feel, that ceaseless raging 
wind! Yet, though the deep lassitude of a sleep¬ 
less night was on me, my nerves were tingling 
with the activity of an equally tireless appre¬ 
hension, and all idea of repose was out of the 
question. The river I saw had risen further. Its 
thunder filled the air, and a fine spray made itself 
felt through my thin sleeping shirt. 

Yet nowhere did I discover the slightest evi¬ 
dences of anything to cause alarm. This deep, pro¬ 
longed disturbance in my heart remained wholly 
unaccounted for. 

My companion had not stirred when I called 


60 


THE WILLOWS 


him, and there was no need to waken him now. 
I looked about me carefully, noting everything: 
the turned-over canoe; the yellow paddles — two 
of them, I’m certain; the provision sack and the 
extra lantern hanging together from the tree; and, 
crowding everywhere about me, enveloping all, the 
willows, those endless shaking willows. A bird 
uttered its morning cry, and a string of duck 
passed with whirring flight overhead in the twi¬ 
light. The sand whirled, dry and stinging, about 
my bare feet in the wind. 

I walked round the tent and then went out a 
little way into the bush, so that I could see across 
the river to the farther landscape, and the same 
profound yet indefinable emotion of distress 
seized upon me again as I saw the interminable 
sea of bushes stretching to the horizon, looking 
ghostly and unreal in the wan light of dawn. I 
walked softly here and there, still puzzling over 
that odd sound of infinite pattering, and of that 
pressure upon the tent that had awakened me. 
It must have been the wind, I reflected — the 
wind beating upon the loose, hot sand, driving the 
dry particles smartly against the taut canvas — 
the wind dropping heavily about our fragile 
roof. 

Yet all the time my nervousness and malaise 
increased appreciably. 

I crossed over to the farther shore and noted 
how the coast-line had altered in the night, and 
what masses of sand the river had torn away. 


ALGERNON BLACKWOOD 


61 


I dipped my hands and feet into the cool current, 
and bathed my forehead. Already there was a 
glow of sunrise in the sky and the exquisite fresh¬ 
ness of coming day. On my way back I passed 
purposely beneath the very bushes where I had 
seen the column of figures rising into the air, and 
midway among the clumps I suddenly found my¬ 
self overtaken by a sense of vast terror. From 
the shadows a large figure went swiftly by. Some 
one passed me, as sure as ever man did. . . . 

It was a great staggering blow from the wind 
that helped me forward again, and once out in 
the more open space the sense of terror dimin¬ 
ished strangely. The winds were about and walk¬ 
ing, I remember saying to myself; for the winds 
often move like great presences under the trees. 
And altogether the fear that hovered about me 
was such an unknown and immense kind of fear, 
so unlike anything I had ever felt before, that 
it woke a sense of awe and wonder in me that 
did much to counteract its worst effects; and when 
I reached a high point in the middle of the island 
from which I could see the wide stretch of river, 
crimson in the sunrise, the whole magical beauty 
of it all was so overpowering that a sort of wild 
yearning woke in me and almost brought a cry 
up into the throat. 

But this cry found no expression, for as my eyes 
wandered from the plain beyond to the island 
round me and noted our little tent half hidden 
among the willows a dreadful discovery leaped out 


62 


THE WILLOWS 


at me, compared to which my terror of the walking 
winds seemed as nothing at all. 

For a change, I thought, had somehow come 
about in the arrangement of the landscape. It was 
not that my point of vantage gave me a different 
view, but that an alteration had apparently been 
effected in the relation of the tent to the willows 
and of the willows to the tent. Surely the bushes 
now crowded much closer — unnecessarily, un¬ 
pleasantly close. They had moved nearer. 

Creeping with silent feet over the shifting sands, 
drawing imperceptibly nearer by soft, unhurried 
movements, the willows had come closer during the 
night. But had the wind moved them, or had they 
moved of themselves? I recalled the sound of 
infinite small patterings and the pressure upon the 
tent and upon my own heart that caused me to 
wake in terror. I swayed for a moment in the wind 
like a tree, finding it hard to keep my upright 
position on the sandy hillock. There was a sug¬ 
gestion here of personal agency, of deliberate 
intention, of aggressive hostility, and it terrified 
me into a sort of rigidity. 

Then the reaction followed quickly. The idea 
was so bizarre, so absurd, that I felt inclined to 
laugh. But the laughter came no more readily 
than the cry, for the knowledge that my mind 
was so receptive to such dangerous imaginings 
brought the additional terror that it was through 
our minds and not through our physical bodies that 
the attack would come, and was coming. 


ALGERNON BLACKWOOD 


63 


The wind buffeted me about, and, very quickly 
it seemed, the sun came up over the horizon, for 
it was after four o^clock, and I must have stood on 
that little pinnacle of sand longer than I knew, 
afraid to come down at close quarters with the 
willows. I returned quietly, creepily, to the tent, 
first taking another exhaustive look round and — 
yes, I confess it — making a few measurements. 
I paced out on the warm sand the distances between 
the willows and the tent, making a note of the 
shortest distance particularly. 

I crawled stealthily into my blankets. My com¬ 
panion, to all appearances, still slept soundly, 
and I was glad that this was so. Provided my 
experiences were not corroborated, I could find 
strength somehow to deny them, perhaps. With 
the daylight I could persuade myself that it was 
all a subjective hallucination, a fantasy of the 
night, a projection of the excited imagination. 

Nothing further came to disturb me, and I fell 
asleep almost at once, utterly exhausted, yet still 
in dread of hearing again that weird sound of 
multitudinous pattering, or of feeling the pres¬ 
sure upon my heart that had made it difficult to 
breathe. 

The sun was high in the heavens when my 
companion woke me from a heavy sleep and 
announced that the porridge was cooked and there 
was just time to bathe. The grateful smell of 
frizzling bacon entered the tent door. 

“ River still rising,” he said, “ and several 


64 


THE WILLOWS 


islands out in mid-stream have disappeared alto¬ 
gether. Our own island’s much smaller.” 

“ Any wood left?” I asked sleepily. 

“ The wood and the island will finish tomorrow 
in a dead heat,” he laughed, but there’s enough 
to last us till then.” 

I plunged in from the point of the island, which 
had indeed altered a lot in size and shape during 
the night, and was swept down in a moment to 
the landing place opposite the tent. The water 
was icy, and the banks flew by like the country 
from an express train. Bathing under such con¬ 
ditions was an exhilarating operation, ;and the 
terror of the night seemed cleansed out of me 
by a process of evaporation in the brain. The 
sun was blazing hot; not a cloud showed itself any¬ 
where; the wind, however, had not abated one 
little jot. 

Quite suddenly then the implied meaning of 
the Swede’s words flashed across me, showing that 
he no longer wished to leave posthaste, and had 
changed his mind. “ Enough to last till to¬ 
morrow ”— he assumed we should stay on the 
island another night. It struck me as odd. The 
night before he was so positive the other way. 
How had the change come about? 

Great crumblings of the banks occurred at break¬ 
fast, with heavy splashings and clouds of spray 
which the wind brought into our frying-pan, and 
my fellow-traveller talked incessantly about the 
difficulty the Vienna-Pesth steamers must have 


ALGERNON BLACKWOOD 


65 


to find the channel in flood. But the state of his 
mind interested and impressed me far more than 
the state of the river or the difficulties of the 
steamers. He had changed somehow since the 
evening before. His manner was different — a 
trifle excited, a trifle shy, with a sort of suspicion 
about his voice and gestures. I hardly know how 
to describe it now in cold blood, but at the time 
I remember being quite certain of one thing, viz.y 
that he had become frightened. 

He ate very little breakfast, and for once omitted 
to smoke his pipe. He had the map spread open 
beside him, and kept studying its markings. 

“ We’d better get off sharp in an hour,” I said 
presently, feeling for an opening that must bring 
him indirectly to a partial confession at any rate. 
And his answer puzzled me uncomfortably: 
“ Rather! If they’ll let us.” 

“ Who’ll let us? The elements?” I asked 
quickly, with affected indifference. 

“ The powers of this awful place, whoever they 
are,” he replied, keeping his eyes on the map. 
“ The gods are here, if they are anywhere at all in 
the world.” 

“ The elements are always the true immortals,” 
I replied, laughing as naturally as I could manage, 
yet knowing quite well that my face reflected my 
true feelings when he looked up gravely at me 
and spoke across the smoke: 

“ We shall be fortunate if we get away without 
further disaster.” 


66 


THE WILLOWS 


This was exactly what I had dreaded, and I 
screwed myself up to the point of the direct ques¬ 
tion. It was like agreeing to allow the dentist 
to extract the tooth; it had to come anyhow in 
the long run, and the rest was all pretense. 

“ Further disaster! Why, what’s happened?” 

“For one thing — the steering paddle’s gone,” 
he said quietly. 

“ The steering paddle gone!” I repeated, greatly 
excited, for this was our rudder, and the Danube 
in flood without a rudder was suicide. “ But 
what-” 

“ And there’s a tear in the bottom of the canoe,” 
he added, with a genuine little tremor in his voice. 

I continued staring at him, able only to repeat 
the words in his face somewhat foolishly. There, 
in the heat of the sun, and on this burning sand, 
I was aware of a freezing atmosphere descending 
round us. I got up to follow him, for he merely 
nodded his head gravely and led the way towards 
the tent a few yards on the other side of the fire¬ 
place. The canoe still lay there as I had last 
seen her in the night, ribs uppermost, the paddles, 
or rather, the paddle, on the sand beside her. 

“ There’s only one,” he said, stooping to pick 
it up. “ And here’s the rent in the baseboard.” 

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that 
I had clearly noticed two paddles a few hours 
before, but a second impulse made me think better 
of it, and I said nothing. I approached to see. 

There was a long, finely-made tear in the bottom 



ALGERNON BLACKWOOD 


67 


of the canoe where a little slither of wood had been 
neatly taken clean out; it looked as if the tooth 
of a sharp rock or snag had eaten down her length, 
and investigation showed that the hole went 
through. Had we launched out in her without 
observing it we must inevitably have foundered. 
At first the water would have made the wood swell 
so as to close the hole, but once out in mid-stream 
the water must have poured in, and the canoe, 
never more than two inches above the surface, 
would have filled and sunk very rapidly. 

“ There, you see, an attempt to prepare a victim 
for the sacrifice,’’ I heard him saying, more to 
himself than to me, “ two victims rather,” he added 
as he bent over and ran his fingers along the 
slit. 

I began to whistle — a thing I always do uncon¬ 
sciously when utterly nonplussed — and purposely 
paid no attention to his words. I was determined 
to consider them foolish. 

“ It wasn’t there last night,” he said presently, 
straightening up from his examination and looking 
anywhere but at me. 

We must have scratched her in landing, of 
course,” I stopped whistling to say. “ The stones 
are very sharp-” 

I stopped abruptly, for at that moment he 
turned round and met my eye squarely. I knew 
just as well as he did how impossible my explana¬ 
tion was. There were no stones, to begin with. 

And then there’s this to explain too,” he added 



68 


THE WILLOWS 


quietly, handing me the paddle and pointing to the 
blade. 

A new and curious emotion spread freezingly 
over me as I took and examined it. The blade 
was scraped down all over, beautifully scraped, 
as though some one had sand-papered it with care, 
making it so thin that the first vigorous stroke 
must have snapped it off at the elbow. 

“ One of us walked in his sleep and did this 
thing,” I said feebly, “ or — or it has been filed 
by the constant stream of sand particles blown 
against it by the wind, perhaps.” 

Ah,” said the Swede, turning away, laughing 
a little, you can explain everything!” 

The same wind that caught the steering paddle 
and flung it so near the bank that it fell in with 
the next lump that crumbled.” I called out after 
him, absolutely determined to find an explanation 
for everything he showed me. 

I see,” he shouted back, turning his head to 
look at me before disappearing among the willow 
bushes. 

Once alone with these perplexing evidences of 
personal agency, I think my first thought took the 
form of “ One of us must have done this thing, and 
it certainly was not I.” But my second thought 
decided how impossible it was to suppose, under 
all the circumstances, that either of us had done 
it. That my companion, the trusted friend of a 
dozen similar expeditions, could have knowingly 
had a hand in it, was a suggestion not to be enter- 


ALGERNON BLACKWOOD 


69 


tained for a moment. Equally absurd seemed the 
explanation that this imperturbable and densely 
practical nature had suddenly become insane and 
was busied with insane purposes. 

Yet the fact remained that what disturbed me 
most and kept my fear actively alive, even in this 
blaze of sunshine and wild beauty, was the clear 
certainty that some curious alteration had come 
about in his mind — that he was nervous, timid, 
suspicious, aware of goings on he did not speak 
about, watching a series of secret and hitherto 
unmentionable events — waiting, in a word, for a 
climax that he expected, and, I thought, expected 
very soon. This grew up in my mind intuitively 
— I hardly knew how. 

I made a hurried examination of the tent and 
its surroundings, but the measurements of the 
night remained the same. There were deep 
hollows formed in the sand, I now noticed for 
the first time, basin-shaped and of various depths 
and sizes, varying from that of a teacup to a 
large bowl. The wind, no doubt, was responsible 
for these miniature craters, just as it was for lifting 
the paddle and tossing it towards the water. The 
rent in the canoe was the only thing that seemed 
quite inexplicable; and, after all, it was conceivable 
that a sharp point had caught it when we landed. 
The examination I made of the shore did not assist 
this theory, but all the same I clung to it with 
that diminishing portion of my intelligence which 
I call my “ reason.’’ An explanation of some kind 


70 


THE WILLOWS 


was an absolute necessity, just as some working 
explanation of the universe is necessary — how¬ 
ever absurd — to the happiness of every individual 
who seeks to do his duty in the world and face the 
problems of life. The simile seemed to me at the 
time an exact parallel. 

I at once set the pitch melting, and presently 
the Swede joined me at the work, though under 
the best conditions in the world the canoe could 
not be safe for travelling till the following day. 
I drew his attention casually to the hollows in the 
sand. 

Yes,’^ he said, “ I know. They’re all over 
the island. But you can explain them, no doubt! ” 

Wind, of course,” I answered without hesi¬ 
tation. Have you never watched those little 
whirlwinds in the street that twist and twirl every¬ 
thing into a circle? This sand’s loose enough to 
yield, that’s all.” 

He made no reply, and we worked on in silence 
for a bit. I watched him surreptitiously all the 
time, and I had an idea he was watching me. He 
seemed, too, to be always listening attentively to 
something I could not hear, or perhaps for some¬ 
thing that he expected to hear, for he kept turning 
about and staring into the bushes, and up into 
the sky, and out across the water where it was 
visible through the openings among the willows. 
Sometimes he even put his hand to his ear and 
held it there for several minutes. He said nothing 
to me, however, about it, and I asked no questions. 


ALGERNON BLACKWOOD 


71 


And meanwhile, as he mended that torn canoe with 
the skill and address of a red Indian, I was glad 
to notice his absorption in the work, for there was 
a vague dread in my heart that he would speak of 
the changed aspect of the willows. And, if he 
had noticed that, my imagination could no longer 
be held a sufficient explanation of it. 

At length, after a long pause, he began to talk. 

“ Queer thing,” he added in a hurried sort of 
voice, as though he wanted to say something and 
get it over. ‘‘ Queer thing, I mean, about that 
otter last night.” 

I expected something so totally different that he 
caught me with surprise, and I looked up sharply. 

‘‘ Shows how lonely this place is. Otters are 

awfully shy things-” 

I don’t mean that, of course,” he interrupted. 

I mean — do you think — did you think it really 
was an otter?” 

What else, in the name of Heaven, what else? ” 
You know, I saw it before you did, and at 
first it seemed — so much bigger than an otter.” 

The sunset as you looked upstream magni¬ 
fied it, or something,” I replied. 

He looked at me absently a moment, as though 
his mind were busy with other thoughts. 

It had such extraordinarily yellow eyes,” he 
went on half to himself. 

“ That was the sun too,” I laughed, a trifle 
boisterously. I suppose you’ll wonder next if 
that fellow in the boat-” 




72 


THE WILLOWS 


I suddenly decided not to finish the sentence. 
He was in the act again of listening, turning his 
head to the wind, and something in the expression 
of his face made me halt. The subject dropped, 
and we went on with our caulking. Apparently 
he had not noticed my unfinished sentence. Five 
minutes later, however, he looked at me across 
the canoe, the smoking pitch in his hand, his face 
exceedingly grave. 

I did rather wonder, if you want to know,’’ 
he said slowly, what that thing in the boat was. 
I remember thinking at the time it was not a man. 
The whole business seemed to rise quite suddenly 
out of the water.” 

I laughed again boisterously in his face, but this 
time there was impatience, and a strain of anger 
too, in my feeling. 

“ Look here now,” I cried, “ this place is quite 
queer enough without going out of our way to 
imagine things! That boat was an ordinary boat, 
and the man in it was an ordinary man, and they 
were both going downstream as fast as they could 
lick. And that otter was an otter, so don’t let’s 
play the fool about it!” 

He looked steadily at me with the same grave 
expression. He was not in the least annoyed. I 
took courage from his silence. 

“ And, for Heaven’s sake,” I went on, “ don’t 
keep pretending you hear things, because it only 
gives me the jumps, and there’s nothing to hear 
but the river and this cursed old thundering wind.” 


ALGERNON BLACKWOOD 


73 


^‘You fool!’’ he answered in a low, shocked 
voice, “ you utter fool. That’s just the way all 
victims talk. As if you didn’t understand just 
as well as I do! ” he sneered with scorn in his voice, 
and a sort of resignation. '' The best thing you 
can do is to keep quiet and try to hold your mind 
as firm as possible. This feeble attempt at self- 
deception only makes the truth harder when you’re 
forced to meet it.” 

My little effort was over, and I found nothing 
more to say, for I knew quite well his words were 
true, and that / was the fool, not he. Up to a 
certain stage in the adventure he kept ahead of 
me easily, and I think I felt annoyed to be out 
of it, to be thus proved less psychic, less sensitive 
than himself to these extraordinary happenings, 
and half ignorant all the time of what was going 
on under my very nose. He knew from the very 
beginning, apparently. But at the moment I 
wholly missed the point of his words about the 
necessity of there being a victim, and that we 
ourselves were destined to satisfy the want. I 
dropped all pretence thenceforward, but thence¬ 
forward likewise my fear increased steadily to the 
climax. 

“ But you’re quite right about one thing,” he 
added, before the subject passed, “ and that is 
that we’re wiser not to talk about it, or even to 
think about it, because what one thinks finds 
expression in words, and what one says happens.” 

That afternoon, while the canoe dried and 


74 


THE WILLOWS 


hardened, we spent trying to fish, testing the leak, 
collecting wood, and watching the enormous flood 
of rising water. Masses of driftwood swept near 
our shores sometimes, and we fished for them with 
long willow branches. The island grew perceptibly 
smaller as the banks were torn away with great 
gulps and splashes. The weather kept brilliantly 
fine till about four o’clock, and then for the first 
time for three days the wind showed signs of 
abating. Clouds began to gather in the south¬ 
west, spreading thence slowly over the sky. 

This lessening of the wind came as a great 
relief, for the incessant roaring, banging and 
thundering had irritated our nerves. Yet the 
silence that came about five o’clock with its sudden 
cessation was in a manner quite as oppressive. 
The booming of the river had everything its own 
way then: it filled the air with deep murmurs, 
more musical than the wind noises, but infinitely 
more monotonous. The wind held many notes, 
rising, falling, always beating out some sort of 
great elemental tune; whereas the river’s song lay 
between three notes at most — dull pedal notes, 
that held a lugubrious quality foreign to the wind, 
and somehow seemed to me, in my then nervous 
state, to sound wonderfully well the music of 
doom. 

It was extraordinary, too, how the withdrawal 
suddenly of bright sunlight took everything out 
of the landscape that made for cheerfulness; and 
since this particular landscape had already 


ALGERNON BLACKWOOD 


75 


managed to convey the suggestion of something 
sinister, the change of course was all the more 
unwelcome and noticeable. For me, I know, the 
darkening outlook became distinctly more alarm¬ 
ing, and I found myself more than once calculating 
how soon after sunset the full moon would get up 
in the east, and whether the gathering clouds would 
greatly interfere with her lighting of the little 
island. 

With this general hush of the wind — though it 
still indulged in occasional brief gusts — the river 
seemed to me to grow blacker, the willows to stand 
more densely together. The latter, too, kept up a 
sort of independent movement of their own, 
rustling among themselves when no wind stirred, 
and shaking oddly from the roots upwards. When 
common objects in this way become charged with 
the suggestion of horror, they stimulate the 
imagination far more than things of unusual 
appearance; and these bushes, crowding huddled 
about us, assumed for me in the darkness a bizarre 
grotesquerie of appearance that lent to them some¬ 
how the aspect of purposeful and living creatures. 
Their very ordinariness, I felt, masked what was 
malignant and hostile to us. The forces of the 
region drew nearer with the coming of night. They 
were focussing upon our island, and more particu¬ 
larly upon ourselves. For thus, somehow, in the 
terms of the imagination, did my really indescrib¬ 
able sensations in this extraordinary place present 
themselves. 


76 


THE WILLOWS 


I had slept a good deal in the early afternoon, 
and had thus recovered somewhat from the 
exhaustion of a disturbed night, but this only 
served apparently to render me more susceptible 
than before to the obsessing spell of the haunting. 
I fought against it, laughing at my feelings as 
absurd and childish, with very obvious physio¬ 
logical explanations, yet, in spite of every effort, 
they gained in strength upon me so that I dreaded 
the night as a child lost in a forest must dread 
the approach of darkness. 

The canoe we had carefully covered with a 
waterproof sheet during the day, and the one 
remaining paddle had been securely tied by the 
Swede to the base of a tree, lest the wind should 
rob us of that too. From five o’clock onwards 
I busied myself with the stewpot and prepara¬ 
tions for dinner, it being my turn to cook that 
night. We had potatoes, onions, bits of bacon 
fat to add flavour, and a general thick residue 
from former stews at the bottom of the pot; with 
black bread broken up into it the result was most 
excellent, and it was followed by a stew of plums 
with sugar and a brew of strong tea with dried 
milk. A good pile of wood lay close at hand, and 
the absence of wind made my duties easy. My 
companion sat lazily watching me, dividing his 
attentions between cleaning his pipe and giving 
useless advice — an admitted privilege of the 
off-duty man. He had been very quiet all the after¬ 
noon, engaged in re-caulking the canoe, strength- 


ALGERNON BLACKWOOD 


77 


ening the tent ropes, and fishing for driftwood 
while I slept. No more talk about undesirable 
things had passed between us, and I think his only 
remarks had to do with the gradual destruction 
of the island, which he declared was now fully a 
third smaller than when we first landed. 

The pot had just begun to bubble when I heard 
his voice calling to me from the bank, where he 
had wandered away without my noticing. I ran 
up. 

Come and listen,’’ he said, and see what 
you make of it.” He held his hand cup wise to 
his ear, as so often before. 

Now do you hear anything? ” he asked, 
watching me curiously. 

We stood there, listening attentively together. 
At first I heard only the deep note of the water 
and the hissings rising from its turbulent surface. 
The willows, for once, were motionless and silent. 
When a sound began to reach my ears faintly, a 
peculiar sound — something like the humming of 
a distant gong. It seemed to come across to us 
in the darkness from the waste of swamps and 
willows opposite. It was repeated at regular 
intervals, but it was certainly neither the sound 
of a bell nor the hooting of a distant steamer. I 
can liken it to nothing so much as to the sound 
of an immense gong, suspended far up in the sky, 
repeating incessantly its muffled metalic note, soft 
and musical, as it was repeatedly struck. My 
heart quickened as I listened. 


78 


THE WILLOWS 


“ I’ve heard it all day,” said my companion. 
“ While you slept this afternoon it came all round 
the island. I hunted it down, but could never get 
near enough to see — to localise it correctly. 
Sometimes it was overhead, and sometimes it 
seemed under the water. Once or twice, too, I 
could have sworn it was not outside at all, but 
within my self — you know — the way a sound in 
the fourth dimension is supposed to come.” 

I was too much puzzled to pay much attention 
to his words. I listened carefully, striving to 
associate it with any known familiar sound I could 
think of, but without success. It changed in direc¬ 
tion, too, coming nearer, and then sinking utterly 
away into remote distance. I cannot say that it 
was ominous in quality, because to me it seemed 
distinctly musical, yet I must admit it set going a 
distressing feeling that made me wish I had never 
heard it. 

The wind blowing in those sand-funnels,” 
I said, determined to find an explanation, or 
the bushes rubbing together after the storm 
perhaps.” 

It comes off the whole swamp,” my friend 
answered. “ It comes from everywhere at once.” 
He ignored my explanations. “ It comes from the 
willow bushes somehow-” 

But now the wind has dropped,” I objected. 

The willows can hardly make a voice by them¬ 
selves, can they?” 

His answer frightened me, first because I had 



ALGERNON BLACKWOOD 


79 


dreaded it, and secondly, because I knew intuitively 
it was true. 

“It is because the wind has dropped we now 
hear it. It was drowned before. It is the cry, 
I believe, of the-’’ 

I dashed back to my fire, warned by a sound 
of bubbling that the stew was in danger, but 
determined at the same time to escape from further 
conversation. I was resolute, if possible, to avoid 
the exchanging of views. I dreaded, too, that 
he would begin again about the gods, or the 
elemental forces, or something else disquieting, 
and I wanted to keep myself well in hand for what 
might happen later. There was another night to 
be faced before we escaped from this distressing 
place, and there was no Imowing yet what it might 
bring forth. 

“ Come and cut up bread for the pot,’’ I called 
to him, vigorously stirring the appetising mixture. 
That stewpot held sanity for us both, and the 
thought made me laugh. 

He came over slowly and took the provision 
sack from the tree, fumbling in its mysterious 
depths, and then emptying the entire contents upon 
the ground-sheet at his feet. 

“ Hurry up!” I cried, “ it’s boiling.” 

The Swede burst out into a roar of laughter 
that startled me. It was forced laughter, not 
artificial exactly, but mirthless. 

“ There’s nothing here!” he shouted, holding his 
sides. 



80 


THE WILLOWS 


“ Bread, I mean.” 

“ It’s gone. There is no bread. They’ve taken 
it!” 

I dropped the long spoon and ran up. Every¬ 
thing the sack had contained lay upon the ground- 
sheet, but there was no loaf. 

The whole dead weight of my growing fear fell 
upon me and shook me. Then I burst out laugh¬ 
ing too. It was the only thing to do, and the 
sound of my own laughter also made me under¬ 
stand his. The strain of psychical pressure caused 
it — this explosion of unnatural laughter in both 
of us; it was an effort of repressed forces to seek 
relief; it was a temporary safety valve. And with 
both of us it ceased quite suddenly. 

How criminally stupid of me!” I cried, still 
determined to be consistent and find an explana¬ 
tion. I clean forgot to buy a loaf at Pressburg. 
That chattering woman put everything out of my 
head, and I must have left it lying on the counter. 


“ The oatmeal, too, is much less than it was 
this morning,” the Swede interrupted. 

Why in the world need he draw attention to 
it? I thought angrily. 

There’s enough for tomorrow,” I said, stirring 
vigorously, “ and we can get lots more at Komorn 
or Gran. In twenty-four hours we shall be miles 
from here.” 

I hope so — to God,” he muttered, putting the 
things back into the sack, unless we’re claimed 



ALGERNON BLACKWOOD 


81 


first as victims for the sacrifice/’ he added with a 
foolish laugh. He dragged the sack into the tent, 
for safety’s sake, I suppose, and I heard him 
mumbling on to himself, but so indistinctly that 
it seemed quite natural for me to ignore his words. 

Our meal was beyond question a gloomy one, 
and we ate it almost in silence, avoiding one 
another’s eyes, and keeping the fire bright. Then 
we washed up and prepared for the night, and, 
once smoking, our minds unoccupied with any 
definite duties, the apprehension I had felt all day 
long became more and more acute. It was not 
then active fear, I think, but the very vagueness 
of its origin distressed me far more than if I had 
been able to ticket and face it squarely. The 
curious sound I have likened to the note of a gong 
became now almost incessant, and filled the still¬ 
ness of the night with a faint, continuous ringing 
rather than a series of distinct notes. At one time 
it was behind and at another time in front of us. 
Sometimes I fancied it came from the bushes on 
our left, and then again from the clumps on our 
right. More often it hovered directly overhead 
like the whirring of wings. It was really every¬ 
where at once, behind, in front, at our sides and 
over our heads, completely surrounding us. The 
sound really defies description. But nothing within 
my knowledge is like that ceaseless muffled hum¬ 
ming rising off the deserted world of swamps and 
willows. 

We sat smoking in comparative silence, the 


82 


THE WILLOWS 


strain growing every minute greater. The worst 
feature of the situation seemed to me that we 
did not know what to expect, and could therefore 
make no sort of preparation by way of defence. 
We could anticipate nothing. My explanations 
made in the sunshine, moreover, now came to 
haunt me with their foolish and wholly unsatis¬ 
factory nature, and it was more and more clear 
to us that some kind of plain talk with my com¬ 
panion was inevitable, whether I liked it or not. 
After all, we had to spend the night together, and 
to sleep in the same tent side by side. I saw that 
I could not get along much longer without the 
support of his mind, and for that, of course, plain 
talk was imperative. As long as possible, how¬ 
ever, I postponed this little climax and tried to 
ignore or laugh at the occasional sentences he 
flung into the emptiness. 

Some of these sentences, moreover, were con- 
Ifoundedly disquieting to me, coming as they did 
to corroborate much that I felt myself: corrobo¬ 
ration, too — which made it so much more con¬ 
vincing — from a totally different point of view. 
He composed such curious sentences, and hurled 
them at me in such an inconsequential sort of 
way, as though his main line of thought was secret 
to himself, and these fragments were the bits he 
found it impossible to digest. He got rid of them 
by uttering them. Speech relieved him. It was 
like being sick. 

“ There are things about us, I’m sure, that make 


ALGERNON BLACKWOOD 


83 


for disorder, disintegration, destruction, our 
destruction,” he said once, while the fire blazed 
between us. WeVe strayed out of a safe line 
somewhere.” 

And another time, when the gong sounds had 
come nearer, ringing much louder than before, and 
directly over our heads, he said, as though talking 
to himself: 

“ I don’t think a phonograph would show any 
record of that. The sound doesn’t come to me 
by the ears at all. The vibrations reach me in 
another manner altogether, and seem to be within 
me, which is precisely how a fourth dimensional 
sound might be supposed to make itself heard.” 

I purposely made no reply to this, but I sat up 
a little closer to the fire and peered about me into 
the darkness. The clouds were massed all over 
the sky, and no trace of moonlight came through. 
Very still, too, everything was, so that the river 
and the frogs had things all their own way. 

“ It has that about it,” he went on, which is 
utterly out of common experience. It is unknown. 
Only one thing describes it really: it is a non¬ 
human sound; I mean a sound outside humanity.” 

Having rid himself of this indigestible morsel, 
he lay quiet for a time; but he had so admirably 
expressed my own feeling that it was a relief to 
have the thought out, and to have confined it 
by the limitation of words from dangerous wander¬ 
ing to and fro in the mind. 

The solitude of that Danube camping-place, 


84 


THE WILLOWS 


can I ever forget it? The feeling of being utterly 
alone on an empty planet. My thoughts ran inces¬ 
santly upon cities and the haunts of men. I would 
have given my soul, as the saying is, for the “ feel ” 
of those Bavarian villages we had passed through 
by the score; for the normal, human common¬ 
places; peasants drinking beer, tables beneath the 
trees, hot sunshine, and a ruined castle on the 
rocks behind the red-roofed church. Even the 
tourists would have been welcome. 

Yet what I felt of dread was no ordinary ghostly 
fear. It was infinitely greater, stranger, and 
seemed to arise from some dim ancestral sense of 
terror more profoundly disturbing than anything 
I had known or dreamed of. We had “ strayed,’’ 
as the Swede put it, into some region or some set 
of conditions where the risks were great, yet unin¬ 
telligible to us; where the frontiers of some 
unknown world lay close about us. It was a spot 
held by the dwellers in some outer space, a sort 
of peep-hole whence they could spy upon the earth, 
themselves unseen, a point where the veil between 
had worn a little thin. As the final result of too 
long a sojourn here, we should be carried over the 
border and deprived of what we called “ our lives,” 
yet by mental, not physical, processes. In that 
sense, as he said, we should Ido the victims of our 
adventure — a sacrifice. 

It took us in different fashion, each according 
to the measure of his sensitiveness and powers of 
resistance. I translated it vaguely into a personi- 


ALGERNON BLACKWOOD 


85 


fication of the mightily disturbed elements, invest¬ 
ing them with the horror of a deliberate and 
malefic purpose, resentful of our audacious intru¬ 
sion into their breeding-place; whereas my friend 
threw it into the unoriginal form at first of a tres¬ 
pass on some ancient shrine, some place where the 
old gods still held sway, where the emotional forces 
of former worshippers still clung, and the ancestral 
portion of him yielded to the old pagan spell. 

At any rate, here was a place unpolluted by men, 
kept clean by the winds from coarsening human 
influences, a place where spiritual agencies were 
within reach and aggressive. Never, before or 
since, have I been so attacked by indescribable 
suggestions of a “ beyond region,’^ of another 
scheme of life, another evolution not parallel to 
the human. And in the end our minds would 
succumb under the weight of the awful spell, and 
we should be drawn across the frontier into their 
world. 

Small things testified to this amazing influence 
of the place, and now in the silence round the 
fire they allowed themselves to be noted by the 
mind. The very atmosphere had proved itself a 
magnifying medium to distort every indication: 
the otter rolling in the current, the hurrying boat¬ 
man making signs, the shifting willo\^, one and 
all had been robbed of its natural character, and 
revealed in something of its other aspect — as it 
existed across the border in that other region. And 
this changed aspect I felt was new not merely to 


86 


THE WILLOWS 


me, but to the race. The whole experience whose 
verge we touched was unknown to humanity at 
all. It was a new order of experience, and in the 
true sense of the word unearthly. 

It’s the deliberate, calculating purpose that 
reduces one’s courage to zero,” the Swede said 
suddenly, as if he had been actually following my 
thoughts. Otherwise imagination might count 
for much. But the paddle, the canoe, the lessen¬ 
ing food-” 

“Haven’t I explained all that once?” I inter¬ 
rupted viciously. 

“You have,” he answered dryly; “you have 
indeed.” 

He made other remarks too, as usual, about what 
he called the “ plain determination to provide a 
victim”; but, having now arranged my thoughts 
better, I recognised that this was simply the cry of 
his frightened soul against the knowledge that he 
was being attacked in a vital part, and that he 
would be somehow taken or destroyed. The situ¬ 
ation called for a courage and calmness of reason¬ 
ing that neither of us could compass, and I have 
never before been so clearly conscious of two 
persons in me — the one that explained everything, 
and the other that laughed at such foolish explana¬ 
tions, yet was horribly afraid. 

Meanwhile, in the pitchy night the fire died 
down and the wood pile grew small. Neither of 
us moved to replenish the stock, and the darkness 
consequently came up very close to our faces. A 



ALGERNON BLACKWOOD 


87 


few feet beyond the circle of firelight it was inky 
black. Occasionally a stray puff of wind set the 
willows shivering about us, but apart from this 
not very welcome sound, a deep and depressing 
silence reigned, broken only by the gurgling of 
the river and the humming in the air overhead. 

We both missed, I think, the shouting company 
of the winds. 

At length, at a moment when a stray puff pro¬ 
longed itself as though the wind were about to 
rise again, I reached the point, for me, of satura¬ 
tion, the point where it was absolutely necessary 
to find relief in plain speech, or else betray myself 
by some hysterical extravagance that must have 
been far worse in its effect upon both of us. I 
kicked the fire into a blaze and turned to my 
companion abruptly. He looked up with a start. 

“ I can’t disguise it any longer,” I said; “ I 
don’t like this place, and the darkness, and the 
noises, and the awful feelings I get. There’s 
something here that beats me utterly. I’m in a 
blue funk, and that’s the plain truth. If the other 
shore was — different, I swear I’d be inclined to 
swim for it!” 

The Swede’s face turned very white beneath 
the deep tan of sun and wind. He stared straight 
at me and answered quietly, but his voice 
betrayed his huge excitement by its unnatural 
calmness. For the moment, at any rate, he was 
the strong man of the two. He was more phleg¬ 
matic, for one thing. 


88 


THE WILLOWS 


It’s not a physical condition we can escape 
from by running away,” he replied, in the tone 
of a doctor diagnosing some grave disease; “we 
must sit tight and wait. There are forces close 
here that could kill a herd of elephants in a second 
as easily as you or I could squash a fly. Our only 
chance is to keep perfectly still. Our insignifi¬ 
cance perhaps may save us.” 

I put a dozen questions into my expression of 
face, but found no words. It was precisely like 
listening to an acccurate description of a disease 
whose symptoms had puzzled me. 

“ I mean that so far, although aware of our 
disturbing presence, they have not found us — 
not ‘ located ’ us, as the Americans say,” he went 
on. “ They’re blundering about like men hunting 
for a leak of gas. The paddle and canoe and 
provisions prove that. I think they feel us, but 
cannot actually see us. We must keep our minds 
quiet — it’s our minds they feel. We must control 
our thoughts, or it’s all up with us.” 

“ Death, you mean?” I stammered, icy with the 
horror of his suggestion. 

“ Worse, by far,” he said. “ Death, according 
to one’s belief, means either annihilation or release 
from the limitations of the senses, but it involves 
no change of character. You don’t suddenly alter 
just because the body’s gone. But this means a 
radical alteration, a complete change, a horrible 
loss of oneself by substitution — far worse than 
death, and not even annihilation. We happen to 


ALGERNON BLACKWOOD 


89 


have camped in a spot where their region touches 
ours, where the veil between has worn thin — 
horrors! he was using my very own phrase, my 
actual words —so that they are aware of our 
being in their neighbourhood.” 

But who are aware?” I asked. 

I forgot the shaking of the willows in the wind¬ 
less calm, the humming overhead, everything 
except that I was waiting for an answer that I 
dreaded more than I can possibly explain. 

He lowered his voice at once to reply, leaning 
forward a little over the fire, an indefinable change 
in his face that made me avoid his eyes and look 
down upon the ground. 

“ All my life,” he said, “ I have been strangely, 
vividly conscious of another region — not far 
removed from our own world in one sense, yet 
wholly different in kind — where great things go 
on unceasingly, where immense and terrible per¬ 
sonalities hurry by, intent on vast purposes com¬ 
pared to which earthly affairs, the rise and fall 
of nations, the destinies of empires, the fate of 
armies and continents, are all as dust in the 
balance; vast purposes, I mean, that deal directly 
with the soul, and not indirectly with mere expres¬ 
sions of the soul-” 

I suggest just now-” I began, seeking to 

stop him, feeling as though I was face to face 
with a madman. But he instantly overbore me 
with his torrent that had to come. 

'' You think,” he said, '' it is the spirits of the 




90 


THE WILLOWS 


elements, and I thought perhaps it was the old 
gods. But I tell you now it is — neither. These 
would be comprehensible entities, for they have 
relations with men, depending upon them for 
worship or sacrifice, whereas these beings who are 
now about us have absolutely nothing to do with 
mankind, and it is mere chance that their space 
happens just at this spot to touch our own.” 

The mere conception, which his words somehow 
made so convincing, as I listened to them there 
in the dark stillness of that lonely island, got me 
shaking a little all over. I found it impossible 
to control my movements. 

And what do you propose?” I began again. 

“ A sacrifice, a victim, might save us by dis¬ 
tracting them until we could get away,” he went 
on, just as the wolves stop to devour the dogs 
and give the sleigh another start. But — I see 
no chance of any other victim now.” 

I stared blankly at him. The gleam in his eyes 
was dreadful. Presently he continued: 

It’s the willows, of course. The willows mask 
the others, but the others are feeling about for 
us. If we let our minds betray our fear, we’re 
lost, lost utterly.” He looked at me with an 
expression so calm, so determined, so sincere, that 
I no longer had any doubts as to his sanity. He 
was as sane as any man ever was. “If we can 
hold out through the night,” he added, “ we may 
get off in the daylight unnoticed, or rather, 
undiscovered'' 


ALGERNON BLACKWOOD 


91 


“ But you really think a sacrifice would-” 

That gong-like humming came down very close 
over our heads as I spoke, but it was my friend’s 
scared face that really stopped my mouth. 

“Hush!” he whispered, holding up his hand. 
“ Do not mention them more than you can help. 
Do not refer to them by name. To name is to 
reveal: it is the inevitable clue, and our only 
hope lies in ignoring them, in order that they may 
ignore us.” 

“ Even in thought?” He was extraordinarily 
agitated. 

“ Especially in thought. Our thoughts make 
spirals in their world. We must keep them out 
of our minds at all costs if possible.” 

I raked the fire together to prevent the dark¬ 
ness having everything its own way. I never 
longed for the sun as I longed for it then in the 
awful blackness of that summer night. 

“ Were you awake all last night?” He went 
on suddenly. 

“ I slept badly a little after dawn,” I replied 
evasively, trying to follow his instructions, which 
I knew instinctively were true, “ but the wind of 
course-” 

“ I know. But the wind won’t account for all 
the noises.” 

“ Then you heard it too?” 

“ The multiplying countless little footsteps I 
heard,” he said, adding, after a moment’s hesita¬ 
tion, “ and that other sound-” 





92 


THE WILLOWS 


You mean above the tent, and the pressing 
down upon us of something tremendous, gigantic?” 

He nodded significantly. 

It was like the beginning of a sort of inner 
suffocation?” I said. 

‘‘ Partly, yes. It seemed to me that the weight 
of the atmosphere had been altered — had in¬ 
creased enormously, so that we should be crushed.” 

‘‘ And I went on, determined to have it 

all out, pointing upwards where the gong-like note 
hummed ceaselessly, rising and falling like wind. 

What do you make of that?” 

‘‘ It’s their sound,” he whispered gravely. It’s 
the sound of their world, the humming in their 
region. The division here is so thin that it leaks 
through somehow. But, if you listen carefully, 
you’ll find it’s not above so much as around us. 
It’s in the willows. It’s the willows themselves 
humming, because here the willows have been made 
symbols of the forces that are against us.” 

I could not follow exactly what he meant by 
this, yet the thought and idea in my mind were 
beyond question the thought and idea in his. 
I realised what he realised, only with less power 
of analysis than his. It was on the tip of my 
tongue to tell him at last about my hallucination 
of the ascending figures and the moving bushes, 
when he suddenly thrust his face again close into 
mine across the {firelight and began to speak in 
a very earnest whisper. He amazed me by his 
calmness and pluck, his apparent control of the 


ALGERNON BLACKWOOD 


93 


situation. This man I had for years deemed 
unimaginative, stolid! 

Now listen,” he said. “ The only thing for 
us to do is to go on as though nothing had hap¬ 
pened, follow our usual habits, go to bed, and 
so forth; pretend we feel nothing and notice 
nothing. It is a question wholly of the mind, 
and the less we think about them the better our 
chance of escape. Above all, don^t thinks for what 
you think happens!” 

All right,” I managed to reply, simply breath¬ 
less with his words and the strangeness of it all; 
'' all right. I’ll try, but tell me one thing more 
first. Tell me what you make of those hollows in 
the ground all about us, those sand-funnels?” 

“No!” he cried, forgetting to whisper in his 
excitement. “ I dare not, simply dare not, put 
the thought into words. If you have not guessed 
I am glad. Don’t try to. They have put it into 
my mind; try your hardest to prevent their putting 
it into yours.” 

He sank his voice again to a whisper before he 
finished, and I did not press him to explain. There 
was already just about as much horror in me as 
I could hold. The conversation came to an end, 
and we smoked our pipes busily in silence. 

Then something happened, something unim¬ 
portant apparently, as the way is when the nerves 
are in a very great state of tension, and this 
small thing for a brief space gave me an entirely 
different point of view. I chanced to look down 


94 


THE WILLOWS 


at my sand-shoe — the sort we used for the canoe 
— and something to do with the hole at the toe 
suddenly recalled to me the London shop where 
I had bought them, the difficulty the man had in 
fitting me, and other details of the uninteresting 
but practical operation. At once, in its train, 
followed a wholesome view of the modern sceptical 
world I was accustomed to move in at home. I 
thought of roast beef and ale, motor-cars, police¬ 
men, brass bands, and a dozen other things that 
proclaimed the soul of ordinariness or utility. The 
effect was immediate and astonishing even to 
myself. Psychologically, I suppose it was simply 
a sudden and violent reaction after the strain of 
living in an atmosphere of things that to the 
normal consciousness must seem impossible and 
incredible. But, whatever the cause, it momen¬ 
tarily lifted the spell from my heart, and left me 
for the short space of a minute feeling free and 
utterly unafraid. I looked up at my friend 
opposite. 

“You damned old pagan!” I cried, laughing 
aloud in his face. “ You imaginative idiot! You 
superstitious idolater! You-” 

I stopped in the middle, seized anew by the 
old horror. I tried to smother the sound of my 
voice as something sacrilegious. The Swede, of 
course, heard it too — that strange cry overhead 
in the darkness — and that sudden drop in the air 
as though something had come nearer. 

He had turned ashen white under the tan. He 



ALGERNON BLACKWOOD 95 

stood bolt upright in front of the fire, stiff as a 
rod, staring at me. 

“ After that,’’ he said in a sort of helpless, 
frantic way, “ we must go! We can’t stay now; 
we must strike camp this very instant and go on 
— down the river.” 

He was talking, I saw, quite wildly, his words 
dictated by abject terror — the terror he had 
resisted so long, but which had caught him at last. 

‘‘ In the dark?” I exclaimed, shaking with fear 
after my hysterical outburst, but still realising our 
position better than he did. Sheer madness! 
The river’s in flood, and we’ve only got a single 
paddle. Besides, we only go deeper into their 
country! There’s nothing ahead for fifty miles 
but willows, willows, willows!” 

He sat down again in a state of semi-collapse. 
The positions, by one of those kaleidoscopic 
changes nature loves, were suddenly reversed, and 
the control of our forces passed over into my hands. 
His mind at last had reached the point where it 
was beginning to weaken. 

“ What on earth possessed you to do such a 
thing?” he whispered, with the awe of genuine 
terror in his voice and face. 

I crossed round to his side of the fire. I took 
both his hands in mine, kneeling down beside him 
and looking straight into his frightened eyes. 

“ We’ll make one more blaze,” I said firmly, 
“ and then turn in for the night. At sunrise we’ll 
be off full speed for Komorn. Now, pull your- 


96 


THE WILLOWS 


self together a bit, and remember your own advice 
about not thinking fear!'’ 

He said no more, and I saw that he would agree 
and obey. In some measure, too, it was a sort 
of relief to get up and make an excursion into the 
darkness for more wood. We kept close together, 
almost touching, groping among the bushes and 
along the bank. The humming overhead never 
ceased, but seemed to me to grow louder as we 
increased our distance from the fire. It was 
shivery work! 

We were grubbing away in the middle of a 
thickish clump of willows where some driftwood 
from a former flood had caught high among the 
branches, when my body was seized in a grip that 
made me half drop upon the sand. It was the 
Swede. He had fallen against me, and was clutch¬ 
ing me for support. I heard his breath coming 
and going in short gasps. 

“Look! By my soul!’’ he whispered, and for 
the first time in my experience I knew what it 
was to hear tears of terror in a human voice. He 
was pointing to the fire, some fifty feet away. I 
followed the direction of his finger, and I swear 
my heart missed a beat. 

There, in front of the dim glow, something was 
moving. 

I saw it through a veil that hung before my 
eyes like the gauze drop-curtain used at the back 
of a theatre — hazily a little. It was neither a 
human figure nor an animal. To me it gave the 


ALGERNON BLACKWOOD 


97 


strange impression of being as large as several 
animals grouped together, like horses, two or three, 
moving slowly. The Swede, too, got a similar 
result, though expressing it differently, for he 
thought it was shaped and sized like a clump of 
willow bushes, rounded at the top, and moving 
all over upon its surface —‘‘ coiling upon itself like 
smoke,” he said afterwards. 

I watched it settle downwards through the 
bushes,” he sobbed at me. ‘‘ Look, by God! 
It’s coming this way! Oh, oh!”—he gave a kind 
of whistling cry. They've jound us." 

I gave one terrified glance, which just enabled 
me to see that the shadowy form was swinging 
towards us through the bushes, and then I col¬ 
lapsed backwards with a crash into the branches. 
These failed, of course, to support my weight, 
so that with the Swede on the top of me we fell 
in a struggling heap upon the sand. I really 
hardly knew what was happening. I was conscious 
only of a sort of enveloping sensation of icy fear 
that plucked the nerves out of their fleshly cover¬ 
ing, twisted them this way and that, and replaced 
them quivering. My eyes were tightly shut; 
something in my throat choked me; a feeling that 
my consciousness was expanding, extending out 
into space, swiftly gave way to another feel¬ 
ing that I was losing it altogether, and about to 
die. 

An acute spasm of pain passed through me, and 
I was aware that the Swede had hold of me in 


98 


THE WILLOWS 


such a way that he hurt me abominably. It was 
the way he caught at me in falling. 

But it was this pain, he declared afterwards, that 
saved me; it caused me to forget them and think 
of something else at the very instant when they 
were about to find me. It concealed my mind from 
them at the moment of discovery, yet just in 
time to evade their terrible seizing of me. He 
himself, he says, actually swooned at the same 
moment, and that was what saved him. 

I only know that at a later time, how long or 
short is impossible to say, I found myself scram¬ 
bling up out of the slippery network of willow 
branches, and saw my companion standing in front 
of me holding out his hand to assist me. I stared 
at him in a dazed way, rubbing the arm he had 
twisted for me. Nothing came to me to say, 
somehow. 

“ I lost consciousness for a moment or two,” 
I heard him say. That’s what saved me. It 
made me stop thinking about them.” 

“ You nearly broke my arm in two,” I said, 
uttering my only connected thought at the moment. 
A numbness came over me. 

That’s what saved your he replied. “ Be¬ 
tween us, we’ve managed to set them off on a 
false track somewhere. The humming has ceased. 
It’s gone — for the moment at any rate!” 

A wave of hysterical laughter seized me again, 
and this time spread to my friend too — great 
healing gusts of shaking laughter that brought a 


ALGERl^ON BLACKWOOD 


99 


tremendous sense of relief in their train. We made 
our way back to the fire and put the wood on 
so that it blazed at once. Then we saw that 
the tent had fallen over and lay in a tangled heap 
upon the ground. 

We picked it up, and during the process tripped 
more than once and caught our feet in sand. 

It’s those sand-funnels,” exclaimed the Swede, 
when the tent was up again and the firelight lit 
up the ground for several yards about us. “ And 
look at the size of them!” 

All round the tent and about the fireplace where 
we had seen the moving shadows there were deep 
funnel-shaped hollows in the sand, exactly similar 
to the ones we had already found over the island, 
only far bigger and deeper, beautifully formed, 
and wide enough in some instances to admit the 
whole of my foot and leg. 

Neither of us said a word. We both knew that 
sleep was the safest thing we could do, and to 
bed we went accordingly without further delay, 
having first thrown sand on the fire and taken the 
provision sack and the paddle inside the tent with 
us. The canoe, too, we propped in such a 
way at the end of the tent that our feet 
touched it, and the least motion would disturb 
and wake us. 

In case of emergency, too, we again went to 
bed in our clothes, ready for a sudden start. 

It was my firm intention to lie awake all night 
and watch, but the exhaustion of nerves and body 


100 


THE WILLOWS 


decreed otherwise, and sleep after a while came 
over me with a welcome blanket of oblivion. The 
fact that my companion also slept quickened its 
approach. At first he fidgeted and constantly sat 
up, asking me if I heard this ’’ or heard that.’^ 
He tossed about on his cork mattress, and said 
the tent was moving and the river had risen over 
the point of the island; but each time I went 
out to look I returned with the report that all was 
well, and finally he grew calmer and lay still. 
Then at length his breathing became regular and 
I heard unmistakable sounds of snoring — the 
first and only time in my life when snoring has 
been a welcome and calming influence. 

This, I remember, was the last thought in my 
mind before dozing off. 

A difficulty in breathing woke me^ and I found 
the blanket over my face. But something else 
besides the blanket was pressing upon me, and 
my first thought was that my companion had rolled 
off his mattress on to my own in his sleep. I 
called to him and sat up, and at the same moment 
it came to me that the tent was surrounded. That 
sound of multitudinous soft pattering was again 
audible outside, filling the night with horror. 

I called again to him, louder than before. He 
did not answer, but I missed the sound of his 
snoring, and also noticed that the flap of the tent 
door was down. This was the unpardonable sin. 
I crawled out in the darkness to hook it back 
securely, and it was then for the first time I 


ALGERNON BLACKWOOD 


101 


realised positively that the Swede was not there. 
He had gone. 

I dashed out in a mad run, seized by a dreadful 
agitation, and the moment I was out I plunged 
into a sort of torrent of humming that surrounded 
me completely and came out of every quarter of 
the heavens at once. It was that same familiar 
humming — gone mad! A swarm of great invisible 
bees might have been about me in the air. The 
sound seemed to thicken the very atmosphere, and 
I felt that my lungs worked with difficulty. 

But my friend was in danger, and I could not 
hesitate. 

The dawn was just about to break, and a faint 
whitish light spread upwards over the clouds from 
a thin strip of clear horizon. No wind stirred. 
I could just make out the bushes and river beyond, 
and the pale sandy patches. In my excitement 
I ran frantically to and fro about the island, calling 
him by name, shouting at the top of my voice 
the first words that came into my head. But the 
willows smothered my voice, and the humming 
muffled it, so that the sound only travelled a few 
feet round me. I plunged among the bushes, 
tripping headlong, tumbling over roots, and scrap¬ 
ing my face as I tore this way and that among the 
preventing branches. 

Then, quite unexpectedly, I came out upon the 
island’s point and saw a dark figure outlined 
between the water and the sky. It was the Swede. 
And already he had one foot in the river! A 


102 


THE WILLOWS 


moment more and he would have taken the plunge. 

I threw myself upon him, flinging my arms 
about his waist and dragging him shorewards with 
all my strength. Of course he struggled furiously, 
making a noise all the time just like that cursed 
humming, and using the most outlandish phrases 
in his anger about going inside to Them and 
“ taking the way of the water and the wind,’’ and 
God only knows what more besides, that I tried 
in vain to recall afterwards, but which turned me 
sick with horror and amazement as I listened. 
But in the end I managed to get him into the com¬ 
parative safety of the tent, and flung him breath¬ 
less and cursing upon the mattress, where I held 
him until the fit had passed. 

I think the suddenness with which it all went 
and he grew calm, coinciding as it did with the 
equally abrupt cessation of the humming and 
pattering outside — I think this was almost the 
strangest part of the whole business perhaps. For 
he just opened his eyes and turned his tired face 
up to me so that the dawn threw a pale light upon 
it through the doorway, and said, for all the world 
just like a frightened child: 

“ My life, old man — it’s my life I owe you. 
But it’s all over now anyhow. They’ve found a 
victim in our place!” 

Then he dropped back upon his blankets and 
went to sleep literally under my eyes. He simply 
collapsed, and began to snore again as healthily 
as though nothing had happened and he had never 


ALGERNON BLACKWOOD 


103 


tried to offer his own life as a sacrifice by 
drowning. And when the sunlight woke him three 
hours later — hours of ceaseless vigil for me — it 
became so clear to me that he remembered abso¬ 
lutely nothing of what he had attempted to do 
that I deemed it wise to hold my peace and ask 
no dangerous questions. 

He woke naturally and easily, as I have said, 
when the sun was already high in a windless hot 
sky, and he at once got up and set about the 
preparation of the fire for breakfast. I followed 
him anxiously at bathing, but he did not attempt 
to plunge in, merely dipping his head and making 
some remark about the extra coldness of the water. 

“ River’s falling at last,” he said, “ and I’m glad 
of it.” 

The humming has stopped too,” I said. 

He looked up at me quietly with his normal 
expression. Evidently he remembered everything 
except his own attempt at suicide. 

Everything has stopped,” he said, be¬ 
cause -” 

He hesitated. But I knew some reference to 
that remark he had made just before he fainted 
was in his mind, and I was determined to know it. 

“ Because ‘ They’ve found another victim?’ ” 
I said, forcing a little laugh. 

‘"Exactly,” he answered, “exactly! I feel as 
positive of it as though — as though — I feel quite 
safe again, I mean,” he finished. 

He began to look curiously about him. The 



104 


THE WILLOWS 


sunlight lay in hot patches on the sand. There 
was no wind. The willows were motionless. He 
slowly rose to his feet. 

“ Come/’ he said; ‘‘ I think if we look we shall 
find it.” 

He started off on a run, and I followed him. 
He kept to the banks, poking with a stick among 
the sandy bays and caves and little back-waters, 
myself always close on his heels. 

Ah!” he exclaimed presently, ‘‘ ah!” 

The tone of his voice somehow brought back 
to me a vivid sense of the horror of the last 
twenty-four hours, and I hurried up to join him. 
He was pointing with his stick at a large black 
object that lay half in the water and half on the 
sand. It appeared to be caught by some twisted 
willow roots so that the river could not sweep it 
away. A few hours before the spot must have 
been under water. 

See,” he said quietly, “ the victim that made 
our escape possible!” 

And where I peered across his shoulder I saw 
that his stick rested on the body of a man. He 
turned it over. It was the corpse of a peasant, 
and the face was hidden in the sand. Clearly the 
man had been drowned but a few hours before, 
and his body must have been swept down upon 
our island somewhere about the hour of the dawn 
— at the very time the fit had passed. 

‘‘We must give it a decent burial, you know.” 

“ I suppose so,” I replied. I shuddered a little 


ALGERNON BLACKWOOD 


105 


in spite of myself, for there was something about 
the appearance of that poor drowned man that 
turned me cold. 

The Swede glanced up sharply at me an unde¬ 
cipherable expression on his face, and began 
clambering down the bank. I followed him more 
leisurely. The current, I noticed, had torn away 
much of the clothing from the body, so that the 
neck and part of the chest lay bare. 

Half-way down the bank my companion sud¬ 
denly stopped and held up his hand in warning; 
but either my foot slipped, or I had gained too 
much momentum to bring myself quickly to a halt, 
for I bumped into him and sent him forward with 
a sort of leap to save himself. We tumbled 
together on to the hard sand so that our feet 
splashed into the water. And before anything 
could be done, we had collided a little heavily 
against the corpse. 

The Swede uttered a sharp cry. And I sprang 
back as if I had been shot. 

At the moment we touched the body there rose 
from its surface the loud sound of humming — 
the sound of several hummings — which passed 
with a vast commotion as of winged things in the 
air about us, and disappeared upwards into the 
sky, growing fainter and fainter till they finally 
ceased in the distance. It was exactly as though 
we had disturbed some living yet invisible creatures 
at work. 

My companion clutched me, and I think I 


106 


THE WILLOWS 


clutched him, but before either of us had time 
properly to recover from the unexpected shock 
we saw that a movement of the current was turn¬ 
ing the corpse round so that it became released 
from the grip of the willow roots. A moment 
later it had turned completely over, the dead face 
uppermost, staring at the sky. It lay on the edge 
of the main stream. In another moment it would 
be swept away. 

The Swede started to save it, shouting again 
something I did not catch about a proper burial ” 
— and then abruptly dropped upon his knees on 
the sand and covered his eyes with his hands. 
I was beside him in an instant. I saw what he 
had seen. 

For just as the body swung round to the current 
the face and the exposed chest turned full toward 
us, and showed plainly how the skin and flesh were 
indented with small hollows,'beautifully formed, 
and exactly similar in shape and kind to the sand- 
funnels that we had found all over the island. 

“ Their mark!” I heard my companion mutter 
under his breath. “ Their awful mark!” 

And when I turned my eyes again from his 
ghastly face to the river, the current had done 
its work, and the body had been swept away into 
midstream and was already beyond our reach and 
almost out of sight, turning over and over on the 
waves like an otter. 


THE OLD NURSE’S STORY 
By Mrs. Gaskell 

You know, my dears, that your mother was an 
orphan, and an only child; and I dare say you 
have heard that your grandfather was a clergy¬ 
man up in Westmorland, where I come from. I 
was just a girl in the village school, when, one day, 
your grandmother came in to ask the mistress if 
there was any scholar there who would do for a 
nursemaid; and mighty proud I was, I can tell 
ye, when the mistress called me up, and spoke to 
my being a good girl at my needle, and a steady, 
honest girl, and one whose parents were very 
respectable, though they might be poor. I thought 
I should like nothing better than to serve the 
pretty young lady, who was blushing as deep as 
I was, as she spoke of the coming baby, and what 
I should have to do with it. However, I see you 
don’t care so much for this part of my story, as 
for what you think is to come, so I’ll tell you at 
once I was engaged, and settled at the parson¬ 
age before Miss Rosamond (that was the baby, 
who is now your mother) was born. To be sure, 
I had little enough to do with her when she came, 
for she was never out of her mother’s arms, and 
slept by her all night long; and proud enough was 
I sometimes when missis trusted her to me. There 
107 


108 THE OLD NURSE’S STORY 


never was such a baby before or since, though 
you’ve all of you been fine enough in your turns; 
but for sweet winning ways, you’ve none of you 
come up to your mother. She took after her 
mother, who was a real lady born; a Miss Furni- 
vall, a granddaughter of Lord Furnivall’s in 
Northumberland. I believe she had neither 
brother nor sister, and had been brought up in 
my lord’s family till she had married your grand¬ 
father, who was just a curate, son to a shopkeeper 
in Carlisle — but a clever fine gentleman as ever 
was — and one who was a right-down hard worker 
in his parish, which was very wide, and scattered 
all abroad over the Westmorland Fells. When 
your mother, little Miss Rosamond, was about four 
or five years old, both her parents died in a fort¬ 
night— one after the other. Ah! that was a sad 
time. My pretty young mistress and me was 
looking for another baby, when my master came 
home from one of his long rides, wet and tired, 
and took the fever he died of; and then she never 
held up her head again, but just lived to see her 
dead baby, and have it laid on her breast before 
she sighed away her life. My mistress had asked 
me, on her death-bed, never to leave Miss Rosa¬ 
mond; but if she had never spoken a word, I 
would have gone with the little child to the end 
of the world. 

The next thing, and before we had well stilled 
our sobs, the executors and guardians came to 
settle the affairs. They were my poor young 


MRS. GASKELL 


109 


mistresses own cousin, Lord Furnivall, and Mr. 
Esthwaite, my master’s brother, a shopkeeper in 
Manchester; not so well-to-do then, as he was 
afterwards, and with a large family rising about 
him. Well! I don’t know if it were their settling, 
or because of a letter my mistress wrote on her 
death-bed to her cousin, my lord; but somehow it 
was settled that Miss Rosamond and me were to 
go to Furnivall Manor House, in Northumberland, 
and my lord spoke as if it had been her mother’s 
wish that she should live with his family, and as 
if he had no objections, for that one or two more 
or less could make no difference in so grand a 
household. So, though that was not the way in 
which I should have wished the coming of my 
bright and pretty pet to have been looked at — 
who was like a sunbeam in any family, be it never 
so grand — I was well pleased that all the folks 
in the Dale should stare and admire, when they 
heard I was going to be young lady’s maid at my 
Lord Furnivall’s at Furnivall Manor. 

But I made a mistake in thinking we were to 
go and live where my lord did. It turned out 
that the family had left Furnivall Manor House 
fifty years or more. I could not hear that my 
poor young mistress had ever been there, though 
she had been brought up in the family; and I was 
sorry for that, for I should have liked Miss Rosa¬ 
mond’s youth to have passed where her mother’s 
had been. 

My lord’s gentleman, from whom I asked as 


110 THE OLD NURSE’S STORY 


many questions as I durst, said that the Manor 
House was at the foot of the Cumberland Fells, 
and a very grand place; that an old Miss Furni- 
vall, a great-aunt of my lord’s, lived there, with 
only a few servants; but that it was a very healthy 
place, and my lord had thought that it would suit 
Miss Rosamond very well for a few years, and that 
her being there might perhaps amuse his old aunt. 

I was bidden by my lord to have Miss Rosa¬ 
mond’s things ready by a certain day. He was 
a stern, proud man, as they say all the Lord 
Furnivalls were; and he never spoke a word more 
than was necessary. Folk did say he had loved 
my young mistress; but that, because she knew 
that his father would object, she would never 
listen to him, and married Mr. Esthwaite; but 
I don’t know. He never married at any rate. 
But he never took much notice of Miss Rosamond; 
which I thought he might have done if he had 
cared for her dead mother. He sent his gentle¬ 
man with us to the Manor House, telling him to 
join him at Newcastle that same evening; so there 
was no great length of time for him to make us 
known to all the strangers before he, too, shook 
us off; and we were left, two lonely young things 
(I was not eighteen), in the great old Manor 
House. It seems like yesterday that we drove 
there. We had left our own dear parsonage very 
early, and we had both cried as if our hearts 
would break, though we were travelling in my 
lord’s carriage, which I had thought so much of 


MRS. GASKELL 


111 


once. And now it was long past noon on a Sep¬ 
tember day, and we stopped to change horses for 
the last time at a little smoky town, all full of 
colliers and miners. Miss Rosamond had fallen 
asleep, but Mr. Henry told me to waken her, that 
she might see the park and the Manor House as 
we drove up. I thought it rather a pity; but I 
did what he bade me, for fear he should complain 
of me to my lord. We had left all signs of a town 
or even a village, and were then inside the gates 
of a large wild park — not like the parks here in 
the south, but with rocks, and the noise of running 
water, and gnarled thorn-trees, and old oaks, all 
white and peeled with age. 

The road went up about two miles, and then 
we saw a great and stately house, with many trees 
close around it, so close that in some places their 
branches dragged against the walls when the wind 
blew; and some hung broken down; for no one 
seemed to take much charge of the place;— to lop 
the wood, or to keep the moss-covered carriage¬ 
way in order. Only in front of the house all was 
clear. The great oval drive was without a weed; 
and neither tree nor creeper was allowed to grow 
over the long, many-windowed front; at both sides 
of which a wing projected, which were each the 
ends of other side fronts; for the house, although 
it was so desolate, was even grander than I 
expected. Behind it rose the Fells, which seemed 
unenclosed and bare enough; and on the left hand 
of the house as you stood facing it, was a little 


112 THE OLD NURSE’S STORY 


old-fashioned flower-garden, as I found out after¬ 
wards. A door opened out upon it from the west 
front; it had been scooped out of the thick dark 
wood for some old Lady Furnivall; but the 
branches of the great forest trees had grown and 
overshadowed it again, and there were very few 
flowers that would live there at that time. 

When we drove up to the great front entrance, 
and went into the hall, I thought we should be 
lost — it was so large, and vast, and grand. There 
was a chandelier all of bronze, hung down the 
middle of the ceiling; and I had never seen one 
before, and looked at it all in amaze. Then, 
at one end of the hall, was a great fire-place, as 
large as the sides of the houses in my country, 
with massy andirons and dogs to hold the wood; 
and by it were heavy old-fashioned sofas. At 
the opposite end of the hall, to the left as you 
went in — on the western side — was an organ 
built into the wall, and so large that it filled up 
the best part of that end. Beyond it, on the 
same side, was a door; and opposite, on each side 
of the fire-place, were also doors leading to the 
east front; but those I never went through as 
long as I stayed in the house, so I can’t tell you 
what lay beyond. 

The afternoon was closing in, and the hall, which 
had no fire lighted in it, looked dark and gloomy; 
but we did not stay there a moment. The old 
servant who had opened the door for us bowed to 
Mr. Henry, and took us in through the door at 


MRS. GASKELL 


113 


the further side of the great organ, and led us 
through several smaller halls and passages into 
the west drawing-room, where he said that Miss 
Fumivall was sitting. Poor little Miss Rosamond 
held very tight to me, as if she was scared and 
lost in that great place, and, as for myself, I 
was not much better. The west drawing-room was 
very cheerful-looking, with a warm fire in it, and 
plenty of good comfortable furniture about. Miss 
Fumivall was an old lady not far from eighty, 
I should think, but I do not know. She was thin 
and tall, and had a face as full of fine wrinkles 
as if they had been drawn all over it with a needle’s 
point. Her eyes were very watchful, to make up, 
I suppose, for her being so deaf as to be obliged 
to use a trumpet. Sitting with her, working at 
the same great piece of tapestry, was Mrs. Stark, 
her maid and companion, and almost as old as she 
was. She had lived with Miss Fumivall ever since 
they both were young, and now she seemed more 
like a friend than a servant; she looked so cold 
and grey, and stony, as if she had never loved or 
cared for anyone; and I don’t suppose she did care 
for anyone, except her mistress; and, owing to 
the great deafness of the latter, Mrs. Stark treated 
her very much as if she were a child. Mr. Henry 
gave some message from my lord, and then he 
bowed good-bye to us all — taking no notice of 
my sweet little Miss Rosamond’s outstretched 
hand — and left us standing there, being looked at 
by the two old ladies through their spectacles. 


114 THE OLD NURSE’S STORY 


I was right glad when they rung for the old 
footman who had shown us in at first, and told 
him to take us to our rooms. So we went out 
of that great drawing-room, and into another 
sitting-room, and out of that, and then up a great 
flight of stairs, and along a broad gallery — which 
was something like a library, having books all 
down one side, and windows and writing-tables all 
down the other — till we came to our rooms, which 
I was not sorry to hear were just over the kitchens; 
for I began to think I should be lost in that wilder¬ 
ness of a house. There was an old nursery, that 
had been used for all the little lords and ladies 
long ago, with a pleasant fire burning in the grate, 
and the kettle boiling on the hob, and tea-things 
spread out on the table; and out of that room 
was the night nursery, with a little crib for Miss 
Rosamond close to my bed. And old James called 
up Dorothy, his wife, to bid us welcome; and both 
he and she were so hospitable and kind, that by 
and by Miss Rosamond and me felt quite at home; 
and by the time tea was over, she was sitting on 
Dorothy’s knee, and chattering away as fast as her 
little tongue could go. I soon found out that 
Dorothy was from Westmorland, and that bound 
her and me together, as it were; and I would never 
wish to meet with kinder people than were old 
James and his wife. James had lived pretty nearly 
all his life in my lord’s family, and thought there 
was no one so grand as they. He even looked 
down a little on his wife; because, till he had 


MRS. GASKELL 


115 


married her, she had never lived in any but a 
farmer’s household. But he was very fond of 
her, as well he might be. They had one servant 
under them, to do all the rough work. Agnes they 
called her; and she and me, and James and 
Dorothy, with Miss Furnival and Mrs. Stark, 
made up the family; always remembering my 
sweet little Miss Rosamond! I used to wonder 
what they had done before she came, they thought 
so much of her now. Kitchen and drawing-room, 
it was all the same. The hard, sad Miss Furnivall 
and the cold Mrs. Stark, looked pleased when she 
came fluttering in like a bird, playing and prank¬ 
ing hither and thither, with a continual murmur, 
and pretty prattle of gladness. I am sure they 
were sorry many a time when she flitted away into 
the kitchen, though they were too proud to ask 
her to stay with them, and were a little surprised 
at her taste; though, to be sure, as Mrs. Stark 
said, it was not to be wondered at, remembering 
what stock her father had come of. The great, 
old rambling house was a famous place for little 
Miss Rosamond. She made expeditions all over 
it, with me at her heels; all, except the east wing, 
which was never opened, and whither we never 
thought of going. But in the western and northern 
part was many a pleasant room; full of things that 
were curiosities to us, though they might not have 
been to people who had seen more. The windows 
were darkened by the sweeping boughs of the 
trees, and the ivy which had overgrown them; but, 


116 THE OLD NURSE’S STORY 


in the green gloom, we could manage to see old 
china jars and carved ivory boxes, and great heavy 
books, and, above all, the old pictures! 

Once, I remember, my darling would have 
Dorothy go with us to tell us who they all were; 
for they were all portraits of some of my lord’s 
family, though Dorothy could not tell us the names 
of every one. We had gone through most of the 
rooms, when we came to the old state drawing¬ 
room over the hall, and there was a picture of 
Miss Furnivall; or, as she was called in those days. 
Miss Grace, for she was the younger sister. Such 
a beauty she must have been! but with such a 
set, proud look, and such scorn looking out of 
her handsome eyes, with her eyebrows just a little 
raised, as if she wondered how anyone could have 
the impertinence to look at her; and her lip curled 
at us, as we stood there gazing. She had a dress 
on, the like of which I had never seen before, 
but it was all the fashion when she was young; 
a hat of some soft white stuff like beaver, pulled 
a little over her brows, and a beautiful plume of 
feathers sweeping round it on one side; and her 
gown of blue satin was open in front to a quilted 
white stomacher. 

Well, to be sure!” said I, when I had gazed 
my fill. Flesh is grass, they do say; but who 
would have thought that Miss Furnivall had been 
such an out-and-out beauty, to see her now?” 

Yes,” said Dorothy. Folks change sadly. 
But if what my master’s father used to say was 


MRS. GASKELL 


117 


true, Miss Furnivall, the elder sister, was hand¬ 
somer than Miss Grace. Her picture is here 
somewhere; but, if I show it to you, you must 
never let on, even to James, that you have seen 
it. Can the little lady hold her tongue, think 
you?’’ asked she. 

I was not so sure, for she was such a little sweet, 
bold, open-spoken child, so I set her to hide her¬ 
self; and then I helped Dorothy to turn a great 
picture, that leaned with its face towards the wall, 
and was not hung up as the others were. To be 
sure, it beat Miss Grace for beauty; and, I think, 
for scornful pride, too, though in that matter it 
might be hard to choose. I could have looked at 
it an hour, but Dorothy seemed half-frightened 
of having shown it to me, and hurried it back 
again, and bade me run and find Miss Rosamond, 
for that there were some ugly places about the 
house, where she should like ill for the child to 
go. I was a brave, high-spirited girl, and thought 
little of what the old woman said, for I liked hide- 
and-seek as well as any child in the parish; so 
off I ran to find my little one. 

As winter drew on, and the days grew shorter, 
I was sometimes almost certain that I heard a 
noise as if some one was playing on the great organ 
in the hall. I did not hear it every evening; but, 
certainly, I did very often; usually when I was 
sitting with Miss Rosamond, after I had put her 
to bed, and keeping quite still and silent in the 
bedroom. Then I used to hear it booming and 


118 THE OLD NURSE’S STORY 


swelling away in the distance. The first night, 
when I went down to my supper, I asked Dorothy 
who had been playing music, and James said very 
shortly that I was a gowk to take the wind sough¬ 
ing among the trees for music; but I saw Dorothy 
look at him very fearfully, and Agnes, the kitchen- 
maid, said something beneath her breath, and went 
quite white. I saw they did not like my question, 
so I held my peace till I was with Dorothy alone, 
when I knew I could get a good deal out of her. 
So, the next day, I watched my time, and I coaxed 
and asked her who it was that played the organ; 
for I knew that it was the organ and not the wind 
well enough, for all I had kept silence before 
James. But Dorothy had had her lesson. I’ll 
warrant, and never a word could I get from her. 
So then I tried Agnes, though I had always held 
my head rather above her, as I was evened to 
James and Dorothy, and she was little better than 
their servant. So she said I must never, never 
tell; and, if I ever told, I was never to say she 
had told me; but it was a very strange noise, and 
she had heard it many a time, but most of all on 
winter nights, and before storms; and folks did 
say, it was the old lord playing on the great organ 
in the hall, just as he used to do when he was alive; 
but who the old lord was, or why he played, and 
why he played on stormy winter evenings in par¬ 
ticular, she either could not or would not tell me. 
Weill I told you I had a brave heart; and I 
thought it was rather pleasant to have that grand 


MRS. GASKELL 


119 


music rolling about the house, let who would be 
the player; for now it rose above the great gusts 
of wind, and wailed and triumphed just like a 
living creature, and then it fell to a softness most 
complete; only it was always music and tunes, 
so it was nonsense to call it the wind. I thought, 
at first, it might be Miss Furnivall who played, 
unknown to Agnes; but, one day when I was in 
the hall by myself, I opened the organ and peeped 
all about it, and around it, as I had done to the 
organ in Crosthwaite Church once before, and I 
saw it was all broken and destroyed inside, though 
it looked so brave and fine; and then, though it 
was noon-day, my flesh began to creep a little, and 
I shut it up, and ran away pretty quickly to my 
own bright nursery; and I did not like hearing 
the music for some time after that, any more than 
James and Dorothy did. All this time Miss 
Rosamond was making herself more and more 
beloved. The old ladies liked her to dine with 
them at their early dinner; James stood behind 
Miss FurnivalPs chair, and I behind Miss Rosa¬ 
mond’s, all in state; and, after dinner, she would 
play about in a corner of the great drawing-room, 
as still as any mouse, while Miss Furnivall slept, 
and I had my dinner in the kitchen. But she 
was glad enough to come to me in the nursery 
afterwards; for, as she said. Miss Furnivall was 
so sad, and Mrs. Stark so dull; but she and I were 
merry enough; and, by and by, I got not to care 
for that weird rolling music, which did one no 


120 THE OLD NURSE^S STORY 


harm, if we did not know where it came from. 

That winter was very cold. In the middle of 
October the frosts began, and lasted many, many 
weeks. I remember, one day at dinner. Miss 
Furnivall lifted up her sad, heavy eyes, and said 
to Mrs. Stark, “ I am afraid we shall have a terrible 
winter,’^ in a strange kind of meaning way. But 
Mrs. Stark pretended not to hear, and talked very 
loud of something else. My little lady and I did 
not care for the frost — not we! As long as it 
was dry we climbed up the steep brows behind 
the house, and went up on the Fells, which were 
bleak and bare enough, and there we ran races 
in the fresh, sharp air; and once we came down 
by a new path that took us past the two old gnarled 
holly-trees, which grew about half-way down by 
the east side of the house. But the days grew 
shorter and shorter; and the old lord, if it was 
he, played away more and more stormily and sadly 
on the great organ. One Sunday afternoon — 
it must have been towards the end of November 
— I asked Dorothy to take charge of little Missy 
when she came out of the drawing-room, after 
Miss Furnivall had had her nap; for it was too 
cold to take her with me to church, and yet I 
wanted to go. And Dorothy was glad enough to 
promise, and was so fond of the child that all 
seemed well; and Agnes and I set off very briskly, 
though the sky hung heavy and black over the 
white earth, as if the night had never fully gone; 
and the air, though still, was very biting and keen. 


MRS. GASKELL 


121 


‘‘We shall have a fall of snow/^ said Agnes to me. 
And sure enough, even while we were in church, it 
came down thick, in great large flakes, so thick 
it almost darkened the windows. It had stopped 
snowing before we came out, but it lay soft, thick 
and deep beneath our feet, as we tramped home. 
Before we got to the hall the moon rose, and I 
think it was lighter then — what with the moon, 
and what with the white dazzling snow — than 
it had been when we went to church, between two 
and three o’clock. I have not told you that Miss 
Furnivall and Mrs. Stark never went to church: 
they used to read the prayers together, in their 
quiet gloomy way; they seemed to feel the Sunday 
very long without their tapestry-work to be busy 
at. So when I went to Dorothy in the kitchen, to 
fetch Miss Rosamond and take her upstairs with 
me, I did not much wonder when the old woman 
told me that the ladies had kept the child with 

them, and that she had never come to the kitchen, 
as I had bidden her, when she was tired of behav¬ 
ing pretty in the drawing-room. So I took off my 
things and went to find her, and bring her to her 
supper in the nursery. But when I went into the 
best drawing-room, there sat the two old ladies, 
very still and quiet, dropping out a word now and 

then, but looking as if nothing so bright and merry 
as Miss Rosamond had ever been near them. Still 
I thought she might be hiding from me; it was 
one of her pretty ways; and that she had per¬ 
suaded them to look as if they knew nothing about 


122 THE OLD NURSE’S STORY 


her; so I went softly peeping under this sofa, and 
behind that chair, making believe I was sadly 
frightened at not finding her. 

What’s the matter, Hester?” said Mrs. Stark 
sharply. I don’t know if Miss Furnivall had seen 
me, for, as I told you, she was very deaf, and she 
sat quite still, idly staring into the fire, with her 
hopeless face. “ I’m only looking for my little 
Rosy-Posy,” replied I, still thinking that the child 
was there, and near me, though I could not see 
her. 

Miss Rosamond is not here,” said Mrs. Stark. 
“ She went away more than an hour ago to find 
Dorothy.” And she too turned and went on look¬ 
ing into the fire. 

My heart sank at this, and I began to wish I 
had never left my darling. I went back to Dorothy 
and told her. James was gone out for the day, 
but she and me and Agnes took lights, and went 
up to the nursery first, and then we roamed over 
the great large house, calling and entreating Miss 
Rosamond to come out of her hiding-place, and 
not frighten us to death in that way. But there 
was no answer; no sound. 

Oh!” said I at last, ‘‘ can she have got into 
the east wing and hidden there?” 

But Dorothy said it was not possible, for that 
she herself had never been in there; that the doors 
were always locked, and my lord’s steward had 
the keys, she believed; at any rate, neither she 
nor James had ever seen them: so, I said I would 


MRS. GASKELL 


123 


go back and see if, after all, she was not hidden 
in the drawing-room, unknown to the old ladies; 
and if I found her there, I said, I would whip her 
well for the fright she had given me; but I never 
meant to do it. Well, I went back to the west 
drawing-room, and I told Mrs. Stark we could not 
find her anywhere, and asked for leave to look all 
about the furniture there, for I thought now, that 
she might have fallen asleep in some warm hidden 
corner; but no! we looked. Miss Furnivall got up 
and looked, trembling all over, and she was 
nowhere there; then we set off again, everyone 
in the house, and looked in all the places we had 
seached before, but we could not find her. Miss 
Furnivall shivered and shook so much that Mrs. 
Stark took her back into the warm drawing-room; 
but not before they had made me promise to bring 
her to to them when she was found. Well-a-day! 
I began to think she never would be found when 
I bethought me to look out into the great front 
court, all covered with snow. I was upstairs when 
I looked out; but, it was such clear moonlight, I 
could see quite plain two little footprints, which 
might be traced from the hall-door, and round the 
corner of the east wing. I don’t know how I got 
down, but I tugged open the great, stiff hall-door; 
and, throwing the skirt of my gown over my head 
for a cloak, I ran out. I turned the east corner, 
and there a black shadow fell on the snow; but 
when I came again into the moonlight, there were 
the little footmarks going up — up to the Fells. 


124 THE OLD NURSE’S STORY 


It was bitter cold; so cold that the air almost took 
the skin off my face as I ran, but I ran on, crying 
to think how my poor little darling must be 
perished and frightened. I was within sight of the 
holly-trees, when I saw a shepherd coming down 
the hill, bearing something in his arms wrapped in 
his maud. He shouted to me, and asked me if I 
had lost a bairn; and, when I could not speak for 
crying, he bore towards me, and I saw my wee 
bairnie lying still, and white, and stiff, in his arms, 
as if she had been dead. He told me he had been 
up the Fells to gather in his sheep, before the 
deep cold of night came on, and that under the 
holly-trees (black marks on the hill-side, where 
no other bush was for miles around) he had found 
my little lady — my lamb — my queen — my 
darling — stiff and cold, in the terrible sleep which 
is frost-begotten. Ohl the joy, and the tears of 
having her in arms once again! for I would not 
let him carry her; but took her, maud and all, into 
my own arms, and held her near my own warm 
neck and heart, and felt the life stealing slowly 
back again into her little gentle limbs. But she 
was still insensible when we reached the hall, and 
I had no breath for speech. We went in by the 
kitchen door. 

Bring the warming-pan,” said I; and I carried 
her upstairs and began undressing her by the 
nursery fire, which Agnes had kept up. I called 
my little lammie all the sweet and playful names 
I could think of — even while my eyes were blinded 


MRS. GASKELL 


125 


by my tears; and at last, oh! at length she opened 
her large blue eyes. Then I put her into her 
warm^ bed, and sent Dorothy down to tell Miss 
Furnivall that all was well; and I made up my 
rnind to sit by my darling's bedside the live-long 
night. She fell away into a soft sleep as soon as 
her pretty head had touched the pillow, and I 
watched by her till morning light; when she 
wakened up bright and clear — or so I thought at 
first — and, my dears, so I think now. 

She said, that she had fancied that she should 
like to go to Dorothy, for that both the old ladies 
were asleep, and it was very dull in the drawing¬ 
room; and that, as she was going through the west 
lobby, she saw the snow through the high window 
falling—falling—soft and steady; but she wanted 
to see it lying pretty and white on the ground; so 
she made her way into the great hall; and then, 
going to the window, she saw it bright and soft upon 
the drive; but while she stood there, she saw a little 
girl, not so old as she was, but so pretty,” said 
my darling, “ and this little girl beckoned to me 
to come out; and oh, she was so pretty and so 
sweet, I could not choose but go.” And then this 
other little girl had taken her by the hand, and side 
by side the two had gone round the east corner. 

“ Now you are a naughty little girl, and telling 
stories,” said I. What would your good mamma, 
that is in heaven, and never told a story in her life, 
say to her little Rosamond, if she heard her — and 
I dare say she does — telling stories!” 


126 THE OLD NURSE^S STORY 


“ Indeed, Hester,’^ sobbed out my child; I^m 
telling you true. Indeed I am.” 

“ Don^t tell me!” said I, very stern. “ I tracked 
you by your footmarks through the snow; there 
were only yours to be seen: and if you had had 
a little girl to go hand-in-hand with you up the 
hill, don’t you think the footmarks would have 
gone along with yours?” 

“ I can’t help it, dear, dear Hester,” said she, 
crying, if they did not; I never looked at her 
feet, but she held my hand fast and tight in her 
little one, and it was very, very cold. She took 
me up the Fell-path, up to the holly-trees; and 
there I saw a lady weeping and crying; but when 
she saw me, she hushed her weeping, and smiled 
very proud and grand, and took me on her knee, 
and began to lull me to sleep; and that’s all, Hester 
— but that is true; and my dear mamma knows 
it is,” said she, crying. So I thought the child was 
in a fever, and pretended to believe her, as she 
went over her story — over and over again, and 
always the same. At last Dorothy knocked at the 
door with Miss Rosamond’s breakfast; and she 
told me the old ladies were down in the eating- 
parlour, and that they wanted to speak to me. 
They had both been into the night-nursery the 
evening before, but it was after Miss Rosamond 
was asleep; so they had only looked at her — not 
asked me any questions. 

“ I shall catch it,” thought I to myself, as I 
went along the north gallery. And yet,” I 


MRS. GASKELL 


127 


thought, taking courage, “ it was in their charge 
I left her; and it's they that's to blame for letting 
her steal away unknown and unwatched." So I 
went in boldly, and told my story. I told it all 
to Miss Furnivall, shouting it close to her ear; 
but when I came to the mention of the other little 
girl out in the snow, coaxing and tempting her 
out, and wiling her up to the grand and beautiful 
lady by the holly-tree, she threw her arms up — 
her old and withered arms — and cried aloud, 
“Oh! Heaven, forgive! Have mercy!" 

Mrs. Stark took hold of her; roughly enough, 
I thought; but she was past Mrs. Stark's manage¬ 
ment, and spoke to me, in a kind of wild warning 
and authority. 

“ Hester! keep her from that child! It will lure 
her to her death! That evil child! Tell her it is 
a wicked, naughty child." Then, Mrs. Stark 
hurried me out of the room; where, indeed, I was 
glad enough to go; but Miss Furnivall kept shriek¬ 
ing out, “ Oh! have mercy! Wilt Thou never for¬ 
give! It is many a long year ago-" 

I was very uneasy in mind after that. I durst 
never leave Miss Rosamond, night or day, for 
fear lest she might slip off again, after some fancy 
or other; and all the more, because I thought 
I could make out that Miss Furnivall was crazy, 
from the odd ways about her; and I was afraid 
lest something of the same kind (which might be 
in the family, you know) hung over my darling. 
And the great frost never ceased all this time; 



128 THE OLD NURSE’S STORY 


and, whenever it was a more stormy night than 
usual, between the gusts, and through the wind, 
we heard the old lord playing on the great organ. 
But, old lord or not, wherever Miss Rosamond 
went, there I followed; for my love for her, pretty 
helpless orphan, was stronger than my fear for 
the grand and terrible sound. Besides, it rested 
with me to keep her cheerful and merry, as be¬ 
seemed her age. So we played together, and wan¬ 
dered together, here and there, and everywhere; 
for I never dared to lose sight of her again in 
that large and rambling house. And so it happened, 
that one afternoon, not long before Christmas 
Day, we were playing together on the billiard- 
table in the great hall (not that we knew the 
right way of playing, but she liked to roll the 
smooth ivory balls with her pretty hands, and 
I liked to do whatever she did); and, by and by, 
without our noticing it, it grew dusk indoors, 
though it was still light in the open air, and I was 
thinking of taking her back into the nursery, when, 
all of a sudden, she cried out: 

“ Look, Hester! look! there is my poor little girl 
out in the snow!” 

I turned towards the long narrow windows, and 
there, sure enough, I saw a little girl, less than my 
Miss Rosamond — dressed all unfit to be out-of- 
doors such a bitter night — crying, and beating 
against the window-panes, as if she wanted to be 
let in. She seemed to sob and wail, till Miss Rosa¬ 
mond could bear it no longer, and was flying to the 


MRS. GASKELL 


129 


door to open it, when, all of a sudden, and close 
upon us, the great organ pealed out so loud and 
thundering, it fairly made me tremble; and all 
the more, when I remembered me that, even in 
the stillness of that dead-cold weather, I had heard 
no sound of little battering hands upon the window- 
glass, although the Phantom Child had seemed to 
put forth all its force; and, although I had seen it 
wail and cry, no faintest touch of sound had fallen 
upon my ears. Whether I remembered all this at 
the very moment, I do not know; the great organ 
sound had so stunned me into terror; but this I 
know, I caught up Miss Rosamond before she got 
the hall-door opened, and clutched her, and carried 
her away, kicking and screaming, into the large 
bright kitchen, where Dorothy and Agnes were 
busy with their mince-pies. 

“ What is the matter with my sweet one?’^ cried 
Dorothy, as I bore in Miss Rosamond, who was 
sobbing as if her heart would break. 

She won’t let me open the door for my little 
girl to come in; and she’ll die if she is out on the 
Fells all night. Cruel, naughty Hester,” she said, 
slapping me; but she might have struck harder, 
for I had seen a look of ghastly terror on Dorothy’s 
face, which made my very blood run cold. 

“ Shut the back kitchen door fast, and bolt it 
well,” said she to Agnes. She said no more; she 
gave me raisins and almonds to quiet Miss Rosa¬ 
mond; but she sobbed about the little girl in the 
snow, and would not touch any of the good things. 


130 THE OLD NURSE’S STORY 


I was thankful when she cried herself to sleep in 
bed. Then I stole down to the kitchen, and told 
Dorothy I had made up my mind. I would carry 
my darling back to my father’s house in Apple- 
thwaite; where, if we lived humbly, we lived at 
peace. I said I had been frightened enough with 
the old lord’s organ-playing; but now that I had 
seen for myself this little moaning child, all decked 
out as no child in the neighbourhood could be, 
beating and battering to get in, yet always without 
any sound or noise — with the dark wound on its 
right shoulder; and that Miss Rosamond had 
known it again for the phantom that had nearly 
lured her to her death (which Dorothy knew was 
true); I would stand it no longer. 

I saw Dorothy change colour once or twice. 
When I had done, she told me she did not think 
I could take Miss Rosamond with me, for that 
she was my lord’s ward, and I had not right over 
her; and she asked me, would I leave the child 
that I was so fond of, just for sounds and sights 
that could do me no harm; and that they had 
all had to get used to in their turns? I was all in 
a hot, trembling passion; and I said it was very 
well for her to talk, that knew what these sights 
and noises betokened, and that had, perhaps, had 
something to do with the Spectre-child while it 
was alive. And I taunted her so, that she told 
me all she knew, at last; and then I wished I had 
never been told, for it only made me more afraid 
than ever. 


MRS. GASKELL 


131 


She said she had heard the tale from old neigh¬ 
bours, that were alive when she was first married; 
when folks used to come to the hall sometimes, 
before it had got such a bad name on the country¬ 
side: it might not be true, or it might, what she 
had been told. 

The old lord was Miss FurnivalPs father — 
Miss Grace, as Dorothy called her, for Miss 
Maude was the elder, and Miss Furnivall by rights. 
The old lord was eaten up with pride. Such a 
proud man was never seen or heard of; and his 
daughters were like him. No one was good enough 
to wed them, although they had choice enough; 
for they were the great beauties of their day, as I 
had seen by their portraits, where they hung in 
the state drawing-room. But, as the old saying 
is, Pride will have a fall,’’ and these two haughty 
beauties fell in love with the same man, and he 
no better than a foreign musician, whom their 
father had down from London to play music with 
him at the Manor House. For, above all things, 
next to his pride, the old lord loved music. He 
could play on nearly every instrument that ever 
was heard of; and it was a strange thing it did 
not soften him; but he was a fierce, dour old man, 
and had broken his poor wife’s heart with his 
cruelty, they said. He was mad after music, and 
would pay any money for it. So he got this 
foreigner to come; who made such beautiful music, 
that they said the very birds on the trees stopped 
their singing to listen. And, by degrees, this 


13 : 


THE OLD NURSE^S STORY 


foreign gentleman got such a hold over the old 
lord, that nothing would serve him but that he 
must come every year; and it was he that had the 
great organ brought from Holland and built up 
in the hall, where it stood now. He taught the 
old lord to play on it; but many and many a 
time, when Lord Furnivall was thinking of nothing 
but his fine organ, and his finer music, the dark 
foreigner was walking abroad in the woods with 
one of the young ladies; now Miss Maude, and 
then Miss Grace. 

Miss Maude won the day and carried off the 
prize, such as it was; and he and she were married, 
all unknown to anyone; and before he made his 
next yearly visit, she had been confined of a little 
girl at a farm-house on the Moors, while her 
father and Miss Grace thought she was away at 
Doncaster Races. But though she was a wife and 
a mother, she was not a bit softened, but as 
haughty and as passionate as ever; and perhaps 
more so, for she was jealous of Miss Grace, to whom 
her foreign husband paid a deal of court— by 
way of binding her — as he told his wife. But 
Miss Grace triumphed over Miss Maude, and 
Miss Maude grew fiercer and fiercer, both with 
her husband and with her sister; and the former 

— who could easily shake off what was dis¬ 
agreeable, and hide himself in foreign countries 

— went away a month before his usual time that 
summer, and half threatened that he would never 
come back again. Meanwhile, the little girl was 


MRS. GASKELL 


133 


left at the farm-house, and her mother used to 
have her horse saddled and gallop wildly over the 
hills to see her once every week, at the very least 
— for where she loved, she loved; and where she 
hated, she hated. And the old lord went on play¬ 
ing— playing on his organ; and the servants 
thought the sweet music he made had soothed 
down his awful temper, of which (Dorothy said) 
some terrible tales could be told. He grew infirm 
too, and had to walk with a crutch; and his son 
—that was the present Lord FurnivalPs father — 
was with the army in America, and the other son 
at sea; so Miss Maude had it pretty much her 
own way, and she and Miss Grace grew colder 
and bitterer to each other every day, till at last 
they hardly ever spoke, except when the old lord 
was by. The foreign musician came again the 
next summer, but it was for the last time; for 
they led him such a life with their jealousy and 
their passions, that he grew weary, and went away, 
and never was heard of again. And Miss Maude, 
who had always meant to have her marriage 
acknowledged when her father should be dead, 
was left now a deserted wife — whom nobody 
knew to have been married — with a child that 
she dared not own, although she loved it to dis¬ 
traction; living with a father whom she feared, 
and a sister whom she hated. When the next 
summer passed over and the dark foreigner never 
came, both Miss Maude and Miss Grace grew 
gloomy and sad; they had a haggard look about 


134 THE OLD NURSE’S STORY 


them, though they looked as handsome as ever. 
But by and by Miss Maude brightened; for her 
father grew more and more infirm, and more 
than ever carried away by his music and 
she and Miss Grace lived almost entirely apart, 
having separate rooms, the one on the west side 
— Miss Maude on the east — those very rooms 
which were now shut up. So she thought she 
might have her little girl with her, and no one 
need ever know except those who dared not speak 
about it, and were bound to believe that it was, 
as she said, a cottager’s child she had taken a 
fancy to. All this, Dorothy said, was pretty well 
known; but what came afterwards no one knew, 
except Miss Grace, and Mrs. Stark, who was even 
then her maid, and much more of a friend to her 
than ever her sister had been. But the servants 
supposed, from words that were dropped, that 
Miss Maude had triumphed over Miss Grace, and 
told her that all the time the dark foreigner had 
been mocking her with pretended love — he was 
her own husband; the colour left Miss Grace’s 
cheeks and lips that very day for ever, and she 
was heard to say many a time that sooner or later 
she would have her revenge; and Mrs. Stark was 
forever spying about the east rooms. 

One fearful night, just after the New Year had 
come in, when the snow was lying thick and deep, 
and the flakes were still falling — fast enough to 
blind anyone who might be out and abroad — 
there was a great and violent noise heard, and 


MRS. GASKELL 


135 


the old lord’s voice above all, cursing and swearing 
awfully — and the cries of a little child — and the 
proud defiance of a fierce woman — and the sound 
of a blow — and a dead stillness — and moans and 
wailings dying away on the hill-side! Then the 
old lord summoned all his servants, and told them, 
with terrible oaths, and words more terrible, that 
his daughter had disgraced herself, and that he 
had turned her out of doors — her, and her child 

— and that if ever they gave her help — or food 

— or shelter — he prayed that they might never 
enter Heaven. And, all the while. Miss Grace 
stood by him, white and still as any stone; and 
when he had ended she heaved a great sigh, as 
much as to say her work was done, and her end 
was accomplished. But the old lord never touched 
his organ again, and died within the year; and 
no wonder! for, on the morrow of that wild and 
fearful night, the shepherds, coming down the 
Fell-side, found Miss Maude sitting, all crazy and 
smiling, under the holly-trees, nursing a dead 
child — with a terrible mark on its right shoulder. 

But that was not what killed it,” said Dorothy; 

it was the frost and the cold — every wild 
creature was in its hole, and every beast in its 
fold — while the child and its mother were turned 
out to wander on the Fells! And now you know 
all! and I wonder if you are less frightened 
now?” 

I was more frightened than ever; but I said 
I was not. I wished Miss Rosamond and myself 


136 THE OLD NURSE’S STORY 


well out of that dreadful house forever; but I 
would not leave her, and I dared not take her 
away. But oh! how I watched her, and guarded 
her! We bolted the doors, and shut the window- 
shutters fast, an hour or more before dark, rather 
than leave them open five minutes too late. But 
my little lady still heard the weird child crying 
and moaning; and not all we could do or say 
could keep her from wanting to go to her, and 
let her in from the cruel wind and the snow. All 
this time, I kept away from Miss Furnivall and 
Mrs. Stark, as much as ever I could; for I feared 
them — I knew no good could be about them, with 
their grey hard faces, and their dreamy eyes, look¬ 
ing back into the ghastly years that were gone. 
But, even in my fear, I had a kind of pity — for 
Miss Furnivall, at least. Those gone down to 
the pit can hardly have a more hopeless look than 
that which was ever on her face. At last I even 
got so sorry for her — who never said a word but 
what was quite forced from her — that I prayed 
for her; and I taught Miss Rosamond to pray 
for one who had done a deadly sin; but often 
when she came to those words, she would listen, 
and start up from her knees, and say, I hear my 
little girl plaining and crying very sad — Oh! let 
her in, or she will die!” 

One night — just after New Year’s Day had 
come at last, and the long winter had taken a 
turn as I hoped — I heard the west drawing-room 
bell ring three times, which was the signal for 


MRS. GASKELL 


137 


me. I would not leave Miss Rosamond alone, for 
she was asleep — for the old lord had been play¬ 
ing wilder than ever — and I feared lest my 
darling should waken to hear the spectre child; 
see her I knew she could not, I had fastened the 
windows too well for that. So, I took her out 
of her bed and wrapped her up in such outer 
clothes as were most handy, and carried her down 
to the drawing-room, where the old ladies sat at 
their tapestry work as usual. They looked up 
when I came in, and Mrs. Stark asked, quite 
astounded, “ Why did I bring Miss Rosamond 
there, out of her warm bed?” I had begun to 
whisper, Because I was afraid of her being 
tempted out while I was away, by the wild child 
in the snow,” when she stopped me short (with a 
glance at Miss Furnivall) and said Miss Furnivall 
wanted me to undo some work she had done wrong, 
and which neither of them could see to unpick. 
So, I laid my pretty dear on the sofa, and sat 
down on a stool by them, and hardened my heart 
against them as I heard the wind rising and 
howling. 

Miss Rosamond slept on sound, for all the wind 
blew so; and Miss Furnivall said never a word, 
nor looked round when the gusts shook the win¬ 
dows. All at once she started up to her full height, 
and put up one hand as if to bid us listen. 

“I hear voices!” said she. I hear terrible 
screams — I hear my father’s voice!” 

Just at that moment, my darling wakened with 


138 THE OLD NURSE’S STORY 


a sudden start: My little girl is crying, oh, how 
she is crying!” and she tried to get up and go 
to her, but she got her feet entangled in the 
blanket, and I caught her up; for my flesh had 
begun to creep at these noises, which they heard 
while we could catch no sound. In a minute or 
two the noises came, and gathered fast, and filled 
our ears; we, too, heard voices and screams, and 
no longer heard the winter’s wind that raged 
abroad. Mrs. Stark looked at me, and I at her, 
but we dared not speak. Suddenly Miss Furni- 
vall went towards the door, out into the ante¬ 
room, through the west lobby, and opened the 
door into the great hall. Mrs. Stark followed, 
and I durst not be left, though my heart almost 
stopped beating for fear. I wrapped my darling 
tight in my arms, and went out with them. In 
the hall the screams were louder than ever; they 
sounded to come from the east wing — nearer and 
nearer — close on the other side of the locked-up 
doors — close behind them. Then I noticed that 
the great bronze chandelier seemed all alight, 
though the hall was dim, and that a fire was 
blazing in the vast hearth-place, though it gave 
no heat; and I shuddered up with terror, and 
folded my darling closer to me. But as I did so, 
the east door shook, and she, suddenly struggling 
to get free from me, cried, Hester! I must go! 
My little girl is there; I hear her; she is coming! 
Hester, I must go!” 

I held her tight with all my strength; with a 


MRS. GASKELL 


139 


set will, I held her. If I had died, my hands 
would have grasped her still; I was so resolved 
in my mind. Miss Furnivall stood listening, and 
paid no regard to my darling, who had got down 
to the ground, and whom I, upon my knees now, 
was holding with both my arms clasped round 
her neck; she still striving and crying to get free. 

All at once, the east door gave way with a 
thundering crash, as if torn open in a violent 
passion, and there came into that broad and 
mysterious light the figure of a tall old man, with 
grey hair and gleaming eyes. He drove before 
him, with many a relentless gesture of abhorrence, 
a stern and beautiful woman, with a little child 
clinging to her dress. 

Oh, Hester! Hester!” cried Miss Rosamond. 

It’s the lady! the lady below the holly-trees; and 
my little girl is with her. Hester! Hester! let me 
go to her; they are drawing me to them. I feel 
them — I feel them. I must go!” 

Again she was almost convulsed by her efforts 
to get away; but I held her tighter and tighter, 
till I feared I should do her a hurt; but rather 
that than let her go towards those terrible phan¬ 
toms. They passed along towards the great hall- 
door, where the winds howled and ravened for 
their prey; but before they reached that, the lady 
turned, and I could see that she defied the old 
man with a fierce and proud defiance; but then 
she quailed — and then she threw up her arms 
wildly and piteously to save her child — her little 


140 THE OLD NURSE’S STORY 


child — from a blow from his uplifted crutch. 

And Miss Rosamond was torn as by a power 
stronger than mine, and writhed in my arms, and 
sobbed (for by this time the poor darling was 
growing faint). 

“ They want me to go with them on to the 
Fells — they are drawing me to them. Oh, my 
little girl!. I would come, but cruel, wicked Hester 
holds me very tight.” But when she saw the 
uplifted crutch she swooned away, and I thanked 
God for it. Just at this moment — when the tall 
old man, his hair streaming as in the blast of a 
furnace, was going to strike the little shrinking 
child — Miss Furnivall, the old woman by my 
side, cried out, Oh, father! father! spare the 
little innocent child!” But just then I saw — we 
all saw — another phantom shape itself, and grow 
clear out of the blue and misty light that filled the 
hall; we had not seen her till now, for it was 
another lady who stood by the old man, with a 
look of relentless hate and triumphant scorn. That 
figure was very beautiful to look upon, with a 
soft white hat drawn down over the proud brows, 
and a red and curling lip. It was dressed in an 
open robe of blue satin. I had seen that figure 
before. It was the likeness of Miss Furnivall 
in her youth; and the terrible phantoms moved 
on, regardless of old Miss Furnivall’s wild entreaty 
— and the uplifted crutch fell on the right shoul¬ 
der of the little child, and the younger sister looked 
on, stony and deadly serene. But at that moment, 


MRS. GASKELL 


141 


the dim lights, and the fire that gave no heat, went 
out of themselves, and Miss Furnivall lay at our 
feet stricken down by the palsy — death-stricken. 

Yes! she was carried to her bed that night never 
to rise again. She lay with her face to the wall, 
muttering low but muttering alway: “ Alas! alas! 
what is done in youth can never be undone in age! 
What is done in youth can never be undone in age! ’’ 


THE TRACTATE MIDDOTH 


By M. R. James 

Towards the end of an autumn afternoon an 
elderly man with a thin face and grey Piccadilly 
weepers pushed open the swing door leading into 
the vestibule of a certain famous library, and 
addressing himself to an attendant, stated that 
he believed he was entitled to use the library, 
and inquired if he might take a book out. Yes, 
if he were on the list of those to whom that privi¬ 
lege was given. He produced his card — Mr. John 
Eldred — and, the register being consulted, a 
favourable answer was given. Now, another 
point,” said he. “ It is a long time since I was 
here, and I do not know my way about your 
building; besides, it is near closing-time, and it 
is bad for me to hurry up and down stairs. I 
have here the title of the book I want: is there 
anyone at liberty who could go and find it for 
me?” 

After a moment’s thought the door-keeper 
beckoned to a young man who was passing. “ Mr. 
Garrett,” he said, ‘‘ have you a minute to assist 
this gentleman?” 

With pleasure,” was Mr. Garrett’s answer. 

1 From Afore Ghost Stories. 


142 


M. R. JAMES 


143 


The slip with the title was handed to him. I 
think I can put my hand on this; it happens to 
be in the class I inspected last quarter, but I’ll 
just look it up in the catalogue to make sure. 
I suppose it is that particular edition that you 
require, sir?” 

“Yes, if you please; that, and no other,” said 
Mr. Eldred; “ I am exceedingly obliged to you.” 

“ Don’t mention it I beg, sir,” said Mr. Garrett, 
and hurried off. 

“ I thought so,” he said to himself, when his 
finger, travelling down the pages of the catalogue, 
stopped at a particular entry. “ Talmud: Tractate 
Middoth, with the commentary of Nachmanides, 
Amsterdam, 1707. 11.3.34. Hebrew class, of 

course. Not a very difficult job, this.” 

Mr. Eldred, accommodated with a chair in the 
vestibule, awaited anxiously the return of his 
messenger — and his disappointment at seeing an 
empty-handed Mr. Garrett running down the stair¬ 
case was very evident. 

“ I’m sorry to disappoint you, sir,” said the 
young man, “ but the book is out.” 

“ Oh, dear I ” said Mr. Eldred, “ is that so? You 
are sure there can be no mistake?” 

“ I don’t think there is much chance of it, 
sir; but it’s possible, if you like to wait a minute, 
that you might meet the very gentleman that’s 
got it. He must be leaving the library soon, and 
I think I saw him take that particular book out of 
the shelf.” 


144 THE TRACTATE MIDDOTH 


“ Indeed! You didn’t recognise him, I suppose? 
Would it be one of the professors or one of the 
students?” 

I don’t think so; certainly not a professor. 
I should have known him; but the light isn’t very 
good in that part of the library at this time of day, 
and I didn’t see his face. I should have said he 
was a shortish old gentleman, perhaps a clergy¬ 
man, in a cloak. If you could wait, I can easily 
find out whether he wants the book very par¬ 
ticularly.” 

“ No, no,” said Mr. Eldred. I won’t — I can’t 
wait now, thank you — no. I must be off. But 
I’ll call again tomorrow if I may, and perhaps you 
could find out who has it.” 

“ Certainly, sir, and I’ll have the book ready 

for you if we-” but Mr. Eldred was already 

off, and hurrying more than one would have 
thought wholesome for him. 

Garrett had a few moments to spare; and, 
thought he, I’ll go back to that case and see if 
I can find the old man. Most likely he could put 
off using the book for a few days. I dare say 
the other one doesn’t want to keep it for long.” 
So off with him to the Hebrew class. 

But when he got there it was unoccupied, and 
the volume marked 11.3.34 was in its place on 
the shelf. It was vexatious to Garrett’s self-respect 
to have disappointed an inquirer with so little 
reason; and he would have liked, had it not been 
against library rules, to take the book down 



M. R. JAMES 


145 


to the vestibule then and there, so that it might 
be ready for Mr. Eldred when he called. How¬ 
ever, next morning he would be on the lookout for 
him, and he begged the doorkeeper to send and 
let him know when the moment came. 

As a matter of fact he was himself in the vesti¬ 
bule when Mr. Eldred arrived, very soon after the 
library opened, and when hardly any one besides 
the staff were in the building. 

“ I^m very sorry,” he said; it’s not often that 
I make such a stupid mistake, but I did feel sure 
that the old gentleman I saw took out that very 
book and kept it in his hand without opening it, 
just as people do, you know, sir, when they mean 
to take a book out of the library and not merely 
refer to it. But, however. I’ll run up now at once 
and get it for you this time.” 

And here intervened a pause. Mr. Eldred 
paced the entry, read all the notices, consulted 
his watch, sat and gazed up the staircase, did 
all that a very impatient man could, until some 
twenty minutes had run out. At last he addressed 
himself to the doorkeeper and inquired if it was 
a very long way to that part of the library to 
which Mr. Garrett had gone. 

“ Well, I was thinking it was funny, sir; he’s 
a quick man as a rule, but to be sure he might 
have been sent for by the librarian, but even so 
I think he’d have mentioned to him that you were 
waiting. I’ll just speak him up on the toob and 
see.” And to the tube he addressed himself. As 


146 THE TRACTATE MIDDOTH 


he absorbed the reply to his question his face 
changed, and he made one or two supplementary 
inquiries which were shortly answered. Then he 
came forward to his counter and spoke in a lower 
tone: “ I’m sorry to hear, sir, that something seems 
to have ’appened a little awkward. Mr. Garrett 
has been took poorly, it appears, and the librarian 
sent him ’ome in a cab the other way. Something 
of an attack, by what I can hear.” 

“ What, really? Do you mean that some one 
has injured him?” 

No, sir, no violence ’ere, but, as I should 
judge, attacted with an attack, what you might 
term it, of illness. Not a strong constitootion, 
Mr. Garrett. But as to your book, sir, perhaps 
you might be able to find it for yourself. It’s too 
bad you should be disappointed this way twice 
over -” 

Er — well, but I’m so sorry that Mr. Garrett 
should have been taken ill in this way while he 
was obliging me. I think I must leave the book, 
and call and inquire after him. You can give 
me his address, I suppose.” That was easily 
done: Mr. Garrett, it appeared, lodged in rooms 
not far from the station. And one other ques¬ 
tion. Did you happen to notice if an old gentle¬ 
man, perhaps a clergyman, in a — yes — in a 
black cloak, left the library after I did yester¬ 
day? I think he may have been a — I think, that 
is, that he may be staying — or rather that I may 
have known him.” 



M. R. JAMES 


147 


“ Not in a black cloak, sir; no. There were 
only two gentlemen left later than what you done, 
sir, both of them youngish men. There was Mr. 
Carter took out a music-book and one of the pro¬ 
fessors with a couple o’ novels. That’s the lot, 
sir; and then I went off to me tea, and glad to 
get it. Thank you, sir, and much obliged.” 

Mr. Eldred, still a prey to anxiety, betook him¬ 
self in a cab to Mr. Garrett’s address, but the 
young man was not yet in a condition to receive 
visitors. He was better, but his landlady con¬ 
sidered that he must have had a severe shock. She 
thought most likely from what the doctor said that 
he would be able to see Mr. Eldred tomorrow. 
Mr. Eldred returned to his hotel at dusk and spent, 
I fear, but a dull evening. 

On the next day he was able to see Mr. Garrett. 
When in health Mr. Garrett was a cheerful and 
pleasant-looking young man. Now he was a very 
white and shaky being, propped up in an arm¬ 
chair by the fire, and inclined to shiver and keep 
an eye on the door. If, however, there were 
visitors whom he was not prepared to welcome, 
Mr. Eldred was not among them. It really is 
I who owe you an apology, and I was despair¬ 
ing of being able to pay it, for I didn’t know your 
address. But I am very glad you have called. I 
do dislike and regret giving all this trouble, 
but you know I could not have foreseen this — 
this attack which I had.” 

Of course not; but now, I am something of 


148 THE TRACTATE MIDDOTH 


a doctor. Youll excuse my asking; you have 
had, I am sure, good advice. Was it a fall you 
had?” 

No. I did fall on the floor — but not from 
any height. It was, really, a shock.” 

You mean something startled you. Was it 
anything you thought you saw?” 

“ Not much thinking in the case, I’m afraid. 
Yes, it was something I saw. You remember 
when you called the first time at the library?” 

“ Yes, of course. Well, now, let me beg you 
not to try to describe it — it will not be good for 
you to recall it, I’m sure.” 

“ But indeed it would be a relief to me to tell 
anyone like yourself: you might be able to explain 
it away. It was just when I was going into the 
class where your book is-” 

“ Indeed, Mr. Garrett, I insist; besides, my 
watch tells me I have but very little time left in 
which to get my things together and take the 
train. No — not another word — it would be 
more distressing to you than you imagine, perhaps. 
Now there is just one thing I want to say. I feel 
that I am really indirectly responsible for this 
illness of yours, and I think I ought to defray the 
expense which it has — eh?” 

But this offer was quite distinctly declined. 
Mr. Eldred, not pressing it, left almost at once: 
not, however, before Mr. Garrett had insisted upon 
his taking a note of the classmark of iYi^Tractate 
Middothy which, as he said, Mr. Eldred could at 



M. R. JAMES 


149 


leisure get for himself. But Mr. Eldred did not 
reappear at the library. 

William Garrett had another visitor that day 
in the person of a contemporary and colleague 
from the library, one George Earle. Earle had 
been one of those who found Garrett lying insen¬ 
sible on the floor just inside the class or 
cubicle (opening upon the central alley of a 
spacious gallery) in which the Hebrew books were 
placed, and Earle had naturally been very anxious 
about his friend’s condition. So as soon as library 
hours were over he appeared at the lodgings. 
“Well,” he said (after another conversation), 
“ IVe no notion what it was that put you wrong, 
but IVe got the idea that there’s something wrong 
in the atmosphere of the library. I know this, 
that just before we found you I was coming along 
the gallery with Davis, and I said to him, ‘ Did 
ever you know such a musty smell anywhere as 
there is about here? It can’t be wholesome.’ Well 
now, if one goes on living a long time with a 
smell of that kind (I tell you it was worse than 
I ever knew it) it must get into the system and 
break out some time, don’t you think?” 

Garrett shook his head. “ That’s all very well 
about the smell — but it isn’t always there, though 
I’ve noticed it the last day or two — a sort of 
unnaturally strong smell of dust. But no — 
that’s not what did for me. It was something I 
saw. And I want to tell you about it. I went 
into the Hebrew class to get a book for a man 


150 THE TRACTATE MIDDOTH 


who was inquiring for it down below. Now that 
same book I’d made a mistake about the day 
before. I’d been for it, for the same man, and 
made sure that I saw an old parson in a cloak 
taking it out. I told my man it was out: off 
he went, to call again next day. I went back 
to see if I could get it out of the parson: no 
parson there, and the book on the shelf. Well, 
yesterday, as I say, I went again. This time, 
if you please — ten o’clock in the morning, re¬ 
member, and as much light as ever you get in 
those classes — there was my parson again, back 
to me, looking at the books on the shelf I wanted. 
His hat was on the table, and he had a bald head. 
I waited a second or two looking at him rather 
particularly. I tell you, he had a very nasty bald 
head. It looked to me dry, and it looked dusty, 
and the streaks of hair across it were much less 
like hair than like cobwebs. Well, I made a bit 
of noise on purpose, coughed and moved my feet. 
He turned round and let me see his face — which 
I hadn’t seen before. I tell you again, I’m not 
mistaken. Though, for one reason or another I 
didn’t take in the lower part of his face, I did 
see the upper part; and it was perfectly dry, and 
the eyes were very deep-sunk; and over them, 
from the eyebrows to the cheekbone, there were 
cobwebs — thick. Now that closed me up, as 
they say, and I can’t tell you anything more.” 

What explanations were furnished by Earle of 
this phenomenon it does not very much concern 


M. R. JAMES 


151 


us to inquire; at all events they did not convince 
Garrett that he had not seen what he had seen. 

Before William Garrett returned to work at the 
library, the librarian insisted upon his taking a 
week’s rest and change of air. Within a few 
days’ time, therefore, he was at the station with 
his bag, looking for a desirable smoking compart¬ 
ment in which to travel to Burnstow-on-Sea, 
which he had not previously visited. One com¬ 
partment and one only seemed to be suitable. 
But, just as he approached it, he saw, standing 
in front of the door, a figure so like one bound up 
with recent unpleasant associations that, with a 
sickening qualm, and hardly knowing what he 
did, he tore open the door of the next compart¬ 
ment and pulled himself into it as quickly as if 
death were at his heels. The train moved off, 
and he must have turned quite faint, for he was 
next conscious of a smelling-bottle being put to 
his nose. His physician was a nice-looking old 
lady, who, with her daughter, was the only pas¬ 
senger in the carriage. 

But for this incident it is not very likely that 
he would have made any overtures to his fellow- 
travellers. As it was, thanks and inquiries and 
general conversation supervened inevitably and 
Garrett found liimself provided before the jour¬ 
ney’s end not only with a physician, but with a 
landlady: for Mrs. Simpson had apartments to let 
at Burnstow,/which seemed in all ways suitable. 
The place v/as empty at that season, so that 


152 THE TRACTATE MIDDOTH 


Garrett was thrown a good deal into the society 
of the mother and daughter. He found them very 
acceptable company. On the third evening of 
his stay he was on such terms with them as to 
be asked to spend the evening in their private 
sitting-room. 

During their talk it transpired that Garrett’s 
work lay in a library. “ Ah, libraries are fine 
places,” said Mrs. Simpson, putting down her 
work with a sigh; but for all that, books have 
played me a sad turn, or rather a book has.” 

“ Well, books give me my living, Mrs. Simpson, 
and I should be sorry to say a word against them; 
I don’t like to hear that they have been bad for 
you.” 

“ Perhaps Mr. Garrett could help us to solve 
our puzzle, mother,” said Miss Simpson. 

I don’t want to set Mr. Garrett off on a hunt 
that might waste a lifetime, my dear, nor yet to 
trouble him with our private affairs.” 

But if you think it in the least likely that I 
could be of use, I do beg you to tell me what the 
puzzle is, Mrs. Simpson. If it is finding out any¬ 
thing about a book, you see, I am in rather a good 
position to do it.” 

“ Yes, I do see that, but the worst of it is that 
we don’t know the name of the book.” 

“ Nor what it is about?” 

No, nor that either.” 

“ Except that we don’t think it’s in English, 
mother — and that is not much of a clue.” 


M. R. JAMES 


153 


“ Well, Mr. Garrett,” said Mrs. Simpson, who 
had not yet resumed her work, and was looking 
at the fire thoughtfully, '' I shall tell you the 
story. You will please keep it to yourself, if you 
don’t mind? Thank you. Now it is just this. 
I had an old uncle, a Dr. Rant. Perhaps you may 
have heard of him. Not that he was a dis¬ 
tinguished man, but from the odd way he chose 
to be buried.” 

“ I rather think I have seen the name in some 
guide-book.” 

That would be it,” said Miss Simpson. “ He 
left directions — horrid old man!— that he was to 
be put, sitting at a table in his ordinary clothes, 
in a brick room that he’d had made underground in 
a field near his house. Of course the country 
people say he’s seen about there in his old black 
cloak. 

Well, dear, I don’t know much about such 
things,” Mrs. Simpson went on, but anyhow he 
is dead, these twenty years and more. He was a 
clergyman, though I’m sure I can’t imagine how 
he got to be one; but he did no duty for the last 
part of his life, which I think was a good thing; 
and he lived on his own property, a very nice 
estate not a great way from here. He had no wife 
or family; only one niece, who was myself, and 
one nephew, and he had no particular liking for 
either of us — nor for anyone else, as far as that 
goes. If anything, he liked my cousin better than 
he did me — for John was much more like him 


154 THE TRACTATE MIDDOTH 


in his temper, and, I’m afraid I must say, his 
very mean sharp ways. It might have been dif¬ 
ferent if I had not married; but I did, and that 
he very much resented. Very well, here he was 
with this estate and a good deal of money at his 
disposal, and it was understood that we — my 
cousin and I — would share it equally at his death. 
In a certain winter, over twenty years back, as I 
said, he was taken ill, and I was sent for to nurse 
him. My husband was alive then, but the old 
man would not hear of his coming. As I drove 
up to the house I saw my cousin John driving 
away from it in an open fly and looking, I noticed, 
in very good spirits. I went up and did what 
I could for my uncle, but I was very soon sure 
that this would be his last illness, and he was 
convinced of it too. During the day before he 
died he got me to sit by him all the time, and 
I could see there was something, and probably 
something unpleasant, that he was saving up to 
tell me, and putting it off as long as he felt he 
could afford the strength — I’m afraid purposely 
in order to keep me on the stretch. But, at last, 
out it came. ‘ Mary,’ he said, ‘ Mary, I’ve made 
my will in John’s favour: he has everything, 
Mary.’ Well, of course that came as a bitter 
shock to me, for we — my husband and I — were 
not rich people, and if he could have managed to 
live a little easier than he was obliged to do, I 
felt it might be the prolonging of his life. But I 
said little or nothing to my uncle, except that he 


M. R. JAMES 


155 


had a right to do what he pleased: partly because 
I could not think of anything to say, and partly 
because I was sure there was more to come, and 
so there was. ‘ But, Mary,' he said, ‘ I'm not 
very fond of John, and I've made another will 
in your favour. You can have everything. Only 
you've got to find the will, you see, and I don't 
mean to tell you where it is.' Then he chuckled 
to himself, and I waited, for again I was sure 
he hadn't finished. ‘ That's a good girl,' he said 
after a time, ‘ you wait, and I'll tell you as much 
as I told John. But just let me remind you, you 
can't go to court with what I'm saying to you, 
for you won't be able to produce any collateral 
evidence beyond your own word, and John's a 
man that can do a little hard swearing if necessary. 
Very well then, that's understood. Now, I had the 
fancy that I wouldn't write this will quite in the 
common way, so I wrote it in a book, Mary, a 
printed book. And there's several thousand books 
in this house. But there! You needn't trouble 
yourself with them, for it isn't one of them. It's 
in safe keeping elsewhere, in a place where John 
can go and find it any day, if he only knew, and 
you can't. A good will it is, properly signed and 
witnessed, but I don't think you'll find the wit¬ 
nesses in a hurry.' 

“ Still I said nothing; if I had moved at all 
I must have taken hold of the old wretch and 
shaken him. He lay there laughing to himself, 
and at last said: 


156 THE TRACTATE MIDDOTH 


‘ Well, well, youVe taken it very quietly, and 
as I want to start you both on equal terms, and 
John has a bit of a purchase in being able to 
go where the book is, I’ll tell you just two other 
things which I didn’t tell him. The will’s in 
English, but you won’t know that if ever you see 
it. That’s one thing, and another is that when 
I’m gone you’ll find an envelope in my desk 
directed to you, and inside it something that 
would help you to find it, if only you have the 
wits to use it.’ 

‘‘ In a few hours from that he was gone, and 
though I made an appeal to John Eldred about 
it-” 

John Eldred? I beg your pardon, Mrs. 
Simpson — I think I’ve seen a Mr. John Eldred. 
What is he like to look at?” 

“ It must be ten years since I saw him; he 
would be a thin elderly man now, and unless he 
has shaved them off, he has that sort of whiskers 
which people used to call Dundreary or Piccadilly 
something.” 

-weepers. Yes, that is the man.” 

“Where did you come across him, Mr. Garrett?” 

“ I don’t know if I could tell you,” said Garrett 
mendaciously, “ in some public place. But you 
hadn’t finished.” 

“ Really I had nothing much to add, only that 
John Eldred, of course, paid no attention what¬ 
ever to my letters, and has enjoyed the estate ever 
since, while my daughter and I have had to take 




M. R. JAMES 


157 


to the lodging-house business here, which I must 
say has not turned out by any means so unpleasant 
as I feared it might.” 

But about the envelope.” 

“ To be sure! Why, the puzzle turns on that. 
Give Mr. Garrett the paper out of my desk.” 

It was a small slip, with nothing whatever on it 
but five numerals, not divided or punctuated in any 
way: 11334. 

Mr. Garrett pondered, but there was a light 
in his eye. Suddenly he “ made a face,” and then 
asked, “ Do you suppose that Mr. Eldred can have 
any more clue than you have to the title of the 
book?” 

I have sometimes thought he must,” said Mrs. 
Simpson, and in this way: that my uncle must 
have made the will not very long before he died 
(that, I think, he said himself), and got rid 
of the book immediately afterwards. But all 
his books were very carefully catalogued, and John 
has the catalogue, and John was most particular 
that no books whatever should be sold out of the 
house. And I’m told that he is always journeying 
about to booksellers and libraries; so I fancy that 
he must have found out just which books are 
missing from my uncle’s library of those which 
are entered in the catalogue, and must be hunting 
for them.” 

“ Just so, just so,” said Mr. Garrett, and re¬ 
lapsed into thought. 

No later than next day he received a letter 


158 THE TRACTATE MIDDOTH 


which, as he told Mrs. Simpson with great regret, 
made it absolutely necessary for him to cut short 
his stay at Bumstow. 

Sorry as he was to leave them (and they were 
at least as sorry to part with him), he had begun 
to feel that a crisis, all-important to Mrs. (and 
shall we add. Miss?) Simpson, was very possibly 
supervening. 

In the train Garrett was uneasy and excited. 
He racked his brains to think whether the press 
mark of the book which Mr. Eldred had been 
inquiring after was one in any way correspond¬ 
ing to the numbers on Mrs. Simpson’s little bit 
of paper. But he found to his dismay that the 
shock of the previous week had really so upset him 
that he could neither remember any vestige of 
the title or nature of the book, or even of the 
locality to which he had gone to seek it. And 
yet all other parts of library topography and work 
were clear as ever in his mind. 

And another thing — he stamped with annoy¬ 
ance as he thought of it — he had at first hesi¬ 
tated, and then had forgotten, to ask Mrs. Simpson 
for the name of the place where Eldred lived. 
That, however, he could write about. 

At least he had his clue in the figures on the 
paper. If they referred to a press mark in his 
library, they were only susceptible of a limited 
number of interpretations. They might be 
divided into 1. 13. 34, 11. 33. 4, or 11. 3. 34. He 
could try all these in the space of a few minutes, 


M. R. JAMES 


159 


and if any one were missing he had every means 
of tracing it. He got very quickly to work', though 
a few minutes had to be spent in explaining his 
early return to his landlady and his colleagues. 

I. 13. 34 was in place and contained no extraneous 
writing. As he drew near to Class II in the same 
gallery, its association struck him like a chill. 
But he must go on. After a cursory glance at 

II. 33.4 (which first confronted him, and was a 
perfectly new book), he ran his eye along the 
line of quartos which fills 11.3. The gap he 
feared was there: 34 was out. A moment was 
spent in making sure that it had not been mis¬ 
placed, and then he was off to the vestibule. 

“Has 11.3.34 gone out? Do you recollect 
noticing that number?” 

“ Notice that number? What do you take me 
for, Mr. Garrett? There, take and look over the 
tickets for yourself, if youVe got a free day before 
you.” 

“ Well then, has a Mr. Eldred called again — 
the old gentleman who came the day I was taken 
ill? Come! you’d remember him.” 

“ What do you suppose? Of course I recollect 
of him; no, he haven’t been in again, not since 
you went off for your ’oliday. And yet I seem 
to — there now. Roberts’ll know. Roberts, do 
you recollect the name of Heldred?” 

“ Not arf,” said Roberts. “ You mean the man 
that sent a bob over the price for the parcel, and 
I wish they all did.” 


160 THE TRACTATE MIDDOTH 


“ Do you mean to say youVe been sending 
books to Mr. Eldred? Come, do speak up! Have 
you?” 

“ Well, now, Mr. Garrett, if a gentleman sends 
the ticket all wrote correct and the secketry 
says this book may go and the box ready'^addressed 
sent with the note, and a sum of money sufficient 
to deefray the railway charges, what would be 
your action in the matter, Mr. Garrett, if I may 
take the liberty to ask such a question? Would 
you or would you not have taken the trouble to 
oblige, or would you have chucked the ’ole thing 

under the counter and-” 

You were perfectly right, of course, Hodgson 

— perfectly right: only, would you kindly oblige 
me by showing me the ticket Mr. Eldred sent, 
and letting me know his address?” 

“To be sure, Mr. Garrett, so long as I’m not 
’ectored about and informed that I don’t know 
my duty, I’m willing to oblige in every way feasible 
to my power. There is the ticket on the file: 
J. Eldred, 11.3.34. Title of work: T—a—^1—m 

— well, there, you can make what you like of it 

— not a novel, I should ’azard the guess. And 
here is Mr. Heldred’s note applying for the book 
in question, which I see he terms it a track.” 

“Thanks, thanks; but the address? There’s 
none on the note.” 

“Ah, indeed; well, now . . . stay now, Mr. 
Garrett, I ’ave it. Why, that note come inside 
of the parcel, which was directed very thoughtful 



M. R. JAMES 


161 


to save all trouble, ready to be sent back with 
the book inside; and if I have made any mistake 
in this 'ole transaction, it lays just in the one 
point that I neglected to enter the address in my 
little book here what I keep. Not but what I 
daresay there was good reasons for me not enter¬ 
ing of it; but there, I haven't the time, neither 
have you, I dare say, to go into 'em just now. 
And — no, Mr. Garrett, I do not carry it in my 
'ed, else what would be the use of me keeping this 
little book here — just a ordinary common note¬ 
book, you see, which I make a practice of entering 
all such names and addresses in it as I see fit to 
do?" 

“ Admirable arrangement, to be sure — but — 
all right, thank you. When did the parcel go off?" 

Half-past ten, this morning." 

Oh, good; and it's just one now." 

Garrett went upstairs in deep thought. How 
was he to get the address? A telegram to Mrs. 
Simpson: he might miss a train by waiting for 
the answer. Yes, there was one other way. She 
had said that Eldred lived on his uncle's estate. 
If this were so, he might find that place entered in 
the donation-book. That he could run through 
quickly, now that he knew the title of the book. 
The register was soon before him, and, knowing 
that the old man had died more than twenty years 
ago, he gave him a good margin, and turned back 
to 1870. There was but one entry possible. 
1875, August 14th. Talmud: Tractatus Middoth 


162 THE TRACTATE MIDDOTH 


cum comm. R. Nachmanidse. Amstelod. 17C7. 
Given by J. Rant, D.D., of Bretfield Manor.” 

A gazeteer showed Bretfield to be three miles 
from a small station on the main line. Now to 
ask the doorkeeper whether he recollected if the 
name on the parcel had been anything like Bret¬ 
field. 

“ No, nothing like. It was, now you mention 
it, Mr. Garrett, either Bredfield or Britfield, but 
nothing like that other name what you coated.” 

So far well. Next, a time-table. A train could 
be got in twenty minutes, taking two hours over 
the journey. The only chance, but one not to be 
missed; and the train was taken. 

If he had been fidgety on the journey up, he 
was almost distracted on the journey down. If 
he found Eldred, what could he say? That it 
had been discovered that the book was a rarity 
and must be recalled? An obvious untruth. Or 
that it was believed to contain important manu¬ 
script notes? Eldred would, of course, show him 
the book, from which the leaf would already have 
been removed. He might, perhaps, find traces 
of the removal — a torn edge of a fly-leaf probably 
— and who could disprove, what Eldred was cer¬ 
tain to say, that he too had noticed and regretted 
the mutilation? Altogether the chase seemed very 
hopeless. The one chance was this: The book had 
left the library at 10.30; it might not have been 
put into the first possible train, at 11.20. Granted 
that, then he might be lucky enough to arrive 


M. R. JAMES 


163 


simultaneously with it and patch up some story 
which would induce Eldred to give it up. 

It was drawing towards evening when he got 
out upon the platform of his station, and, like 
most country stations, this one seemed unnaturally 
quiet. He waited about till the one or two pas¬ 
sengers who got out with him had drifted off, and 
then inquired of the stationmaster whether Mr. 
Eldred was in the neighbourhood. 

“ Yes, and pretty near too, I believe, I fancy 
he means calling here for a parcel he expects. 
Called for it once today already, didn’t he. Bob?” 
(to the porter). 

Yes, sir, he did; and appeared t > think it 
was all along of me that it didn’t come by the 
two o’clock. Anyhow, I’ve got it for him now,” 
and the porter flourished a square parcel, which 
a glance assured Garrett contained all that was 
of any importance to him at that particular 
moment. 

Bretfield, sir? Yes — three miles just about. 
Short cut across these three fields brings it down 
by half a mile. There; there’s Mr. Eldred’s trap.” 

A dog-cart drove up with two men in it, of 
whom Garrett, gazing back as he crossed the 
little station yard, easily recognised one. The 
fact that Eldred was driving was slightly in his 
favour — for most likely he would not open the 
parcel in the presence of his servant. On the 
other hand, he would get home quickly, and unless 
Garrett were there within a very few minutes of 


164 THE TRACTATE MIDDOTH 


his arrival, all would be over. He must hurry, 
and that he did. His short cut took him along 
one side of a triangle, while the cart had two sides 
to traverse, and it was delayed a little at the 
station, so that Garrett was in the third of the three 
fields when he heard the wheels fairly near. He 
had made the best progress possible, but the pace 
at which the cart was coming made him despair. 
At this rate it must reach home ten minutes before 
him, and ten minutes would more than suffice for 
the fulfilment of Mr. Eldred’s project. 

It was just at this time that the luck fairly 
turned. The evening was still, and sounds came 
clearly. Seldom has any sound given greater relief 
than that which he now heard: that of the cart 
pulling up. A few words were exchanged, and 
it drove on. Garrett, halting in the utmost 
anxiety, was able to see as it drove past the stile 
(near which he now stood), that it contained only 
the servant and not Eldred: further, he made out 
that Eldred was following on foot. From behind 
the tall hedge by the stile leading into the road 
he watched the thin wiry figure pass quickly by 
with the parcel beneath its arm, and feeling in 
its pockets. Just as he passed the stile something 
fell out of a pocket upon the grass, but with so 
little sound that Eldred was not conscious of it. 
In a moment more it was safe for Garrett to cross 
the stile into the road and pick up a box of 
matches. 

Eldred went on, and, as he went, his arms made 


M. R. JAMES 


165 


hasty movements difficult to interpret in the 
shadow of the trees that overhung the road. But, 
as Garrett followed cautiously, he found at various 
points the key to them — a piece of string, and 
then the wrapper of the parcel — meant to be 
thrown over the hedge, but sticking in it. 

Now Eldred was walking slower, and it could 
just be made out that he had opened the book and 
was turning over the leaves. He stopped, evi¬ 
dently troubled by the failing light. Garrett 
slipped into a gate-opening, but still watched. 
Eldred, hastily looking around, sat down on a 
felled tree-trunk by the roadside and held the 
open book up close to his eyes. Suddenly he 
laid it, still open, on his knee, and felt in all his 
pockets: clearly in vain, and clearly to his 
annoyance. 

“ You would be glad of your matches now,” 
thought Garrett. Then he took hold of a leaf, 
and was carefully tearing it out, when two things 
happened. First, something black seemed to drop 
upon the white leaf and run down it, and then 
as Eldred started and was turning to look behind 
him, a little dark form appeared to rise out of the 
shadow behind the tree-trunk and from it two arms 
enclosing a mass of blackness came before Eldred’s 
face and covered his head and neck. His legs and 
arms were wildly flourished, but no sound came. 
Then, there was no more movement. Eldred was 
alone. He had fallen back into the grass behind 
the tree-trunk. The book was cast into the road- 


166 THE TRACTATE MIDDOTH 


way. Garrett, his anger and suspicion gone for 
the moment at the sight of this horrid struggle, 
rushed up with loud cries of Help!’’ and so too, 
to his enormous relief, did a labourer who had 
just emerged from a field opposite. Together they 
bent over and supported Eldred, but to no pur¬ 
pose. The conclusion that he was dead was inevi¬ 
table. Poor gentleman!” said Garrett to the 
labourer, when they had laid him down, what 
happened to him, do you think?” 

“ I wasn’t two hundred yards away,” said the 
man, “ when I see Squire Eldred setting reading 
in his book, and to my thinking he was took with 
one of these fits—face seemed to go all over black.” 

“ Just so,” said Garrett. “ You didn’t see any¬ 
one near him? It couldn’t have been an assault?” 

“ Not possible — no one couldn’t have got away 
without you or me seeing them.” 

“ So I thought. Well, we must get some help, 
and the doctor and the policeman; and perhaps 
I had better give them this book.” 

It was obviously a case for an inquest, and 
obvious also that Garrett must stay at Bretfield 
and give his evidence. The medical inspection 
showed that, though some black dust was found 
on the face and in the mouth of the deceased, the 
cause of death was a shock to a weak heart, and 
not asphy:xiation. The fateful book was produced, 
a respectable quarto printed wholly in Hebrew, 
and not of an aspect likely to excite even the most 
sensitive. 


M. R. JAMES 


167 


“ You say, Mr. Garrett, that the deceased gen¬ 
tleman appeared at the moment before his attack 
to be tearing a leaf out of this book?” 

‘‘Yes; I think one of the fly-leaves.” 

“ There is here a fly-leaf partially torn through. 
It has Hebrew writing on it. Will you kindly 
inspect it?” 

“ There are three names in English, sir, also, 
and a date. But I am sorry to say I cannot read 
Hebrew writing.” 

“ Thank you. The names have the appearance 
of being signatures. They are John Rant, Walter 
Gibson, and James Frost, and the date is July 
20th, 1875. Does anyone here know any of these 
names?” 

The Rector, who was present, volunteered a 
statement that the uncle of the deceased, from 
whom he inherited, had been named Rant. 

The book being handed to him, he shook a 
puzzled head. “ This is not like any Hebrew I 
ever learnt.” 

“ You are sure that it is Hebrew?” 

“ What? Yes — I suppose . . . No — my dear 
sir, you are perfectly right — that is, your sug¬ 
gestion is exactly to the point. Of course — it is 
not Hebrew at all. It is English, and it is a will.” 

It did not take many minutes to show that 
here was indeed a will of Dr. John Rant, bequeath¬ 
ing the whole of the property lately held by John 
Eldred to Mrs. Mary Simpson. Clearly the dis¬ 
covery of such a document would amply justify 


168 THE TRACTATE MIDDOTH 


Mr. Eldred^s agitation. As to the partial tearing 
of the leaf, the coroner pointed out that no useful 
purpose could be attained by speculations whose 
corrections it would never be possible to establish. 

The Tractate Middoth was naturally taken in 
charge by the coroner for further investigation, 
and Mr. Garrett explained privately to him the 
history of it, and the position of events so far 
as he knew or guessed them. 

He returned to his work next day, and on his 
walk to the station passed the scene of Mr. Eldred’s 
catastrophe. He could hardly leave it without 
another look, though the recollection of what he 
had seen there made him shiver, even on that 
bright morning. He walked round, with some 
misgivings, behind the felled tree. Something 
dark that still lay there made him start for a 
moment, but it hardly stirred. Looking closer, 
he saw that it was a thick black mass of cobwebs, 
and, as he stirred it gingerly with his stick, several: 
large spiders ran out of it into the grass. ' 

There is no great difficulty in imagining the ‘ 
steps by which William Garrett, from being an 
assistant in a great library, attained to his present 
position of prospective owner of Bretfield Manor, 
now in the occupation of his mother-in-law, Mrs. 
Mary Simpson. 


THURNLEY ABBEY' 


By Percival Landon 

Three years ago I was on my way out to the 
East, and as an extra day in London was of some 
importance, I took the Friday evening mail train 
to Brindisi instead of the usual Thursday morning 
Marseilles express. Many people shrink from the 
long forty-eight-hour train journey through 
Europe, and the subsequent rush across the 
Mediterranean on the nineteen-knot Isis or Osiris; 
but there is really very little discomfort on either 
the train or the mail-boat, and unless there is 
actually nothing for me to do, I always like to 
save the extra day and a half in London before 
I say good-bye to her for one of my longer tramps. 
This time — it was early, I remember, in the 
shipping season, probably about the beginning of 
September — there were few passengers, and I 
had a compartment in the P. and O. Indian express 
to myself all the way from Calais. All Sunday I 
watched the blue waves dimpling the Adriatic, 
and the pale rosemary along the cuttings; the 
plain white towns, with their flat roofs and their 
bold '' duomos,’’ and the grey-green gnarled olive 
orchards of Apulia. The journey was just like 
any other. We ate in the dining-car as often and 

^From Raw Edges. (Heinemann.) 

169 


170 


THURNLEY ABBEY 


as long as we decently could. We slept after 
luncheon; we dawdled the afternoon away with 
yellow-backed novels; sometimes we exchanged 
platitudes in the smoking-room, and it was there 
that I met Alastair Colvin. 

Colvin was a man of middle height, with a 
resolute, well-cut jaw; his hair was turning grey; 
his moustache was sun-whitened, otherwise he was 
clean-shaven — obviously a gentleman, and obvi¬ 
ously also a preoccupied man. He had no great 
wit. When spoken to, he made the usual remarks 
in the right way, and I dare say he refrained from 
banalities only because he spoke less than the 
rest of us; most of the time he buried himself in 
the Wagon-lit Company’s time-table, but seemed 
unable to concentrate his attention on any one 
page of it. He found that I had been over the 
Siberian railway, and for a quarter of an hour 
he discussed it with me. Then he lost interest 
in it, and rose to go to his compartment. But 
he came back again very soon, and seemed glad to 
pick up the conversation again. 

Of course this did not seem to me to be of 
any importance. Most travellers by train become 
a trifle infirm of purpose after thirty-six hours’ 
rattling. But Colvin’s restless way I noticed in 
somewhat marked contrast with the man’s personal 
importance and dignity; especially ill suited was 
it to his finely made large hand with strong, broad, 
regular nails and its few lines. As I looked at his 
hand I noticed a long, deep, and recent scar of 


PERCIVAL LANDON 


171 


ragged shape. However, it is absurd to pretend 
that I thought anything was unusual. I went off 
at five o’clock on Sunday afternoon to sleep away 
the hour or two that had still to be got through 
before we arrived at Brindisi. 

Once there, we few passengers transhipped our 
hand baggage, verified our berths — there were 
only a score of us in all—and then, after an aimless 
ramble of half an hour in Brindisi, we returned to 
dinner at the Hotel International, not wholly 
surprised that the town had been the death of 
Virgil. If I remember rightly, there is a gaily 
painted hall at the International — I do not wish 
to advertise anything, but there is no other place 
in Brindisi at which to await the coming of the 
mails — and after dinner I was looking with awe 
at a trellis overgrown with blue vines, when Colvin 
moved across the room to my table. He picked 
up II Secolo, but almost immediately gave up the 
pretense of reading it. He turned squarely to me 
and said: 

Would you do me a favour?” 

One doesn’t do favours to stray acquaintances 
on Continental expresses without knowing some¬ 
thing more of them than I knew of Colvin. But 
I smiled in a non-committal way, and asked him 
what he wanted. I wasn’t wrong in part of my 
estimate of him; he said bluntly: 

“ Will you let me sleep in your cabin on the 
Osiris?'' And he coloured a little as he said it. ^ 
Now, there is nothing more tiresome than having 


172 


THURNLEY ABBEY 


to put up with a stable-companion at sea, and 
I asked him rather pointedly: 

Surely there is room for all of us?’^ I thought 
that perhaps he had been partenered off with some 
mangy Levantine, and wanted to escape from him 
at all hazards. 

Colvin, still somewhat confused, said: “Yes; I 
am in a cabin by myself. But you would do me 
the greatest favour if you would allow me to share 
yours.’’ 

This was all very well, but, besides the fact 
that I always sleep better when alone, there had 
been some recent thefts on board English liners, 
and I hesitated, frank and honest and self-conscious 
as Colvin was. Just then the mail-train came in 
with a clatter and a rush of escaping steam, and 
I asked him to see me again about it on the boat 
when we started. He answered me curtly — I 
suppose he saw the mistrust in my manner —“ I 
am a member of White’s.” I smiled to myself 
as he said it, but I remembered in a moment that 
the man — if he were really what he claimed to 
be, and I make no doubt that he was — must 
have been sorely put to it before he urged the 
fact as a guarantee of his respectability to a total 
stranger at a Brindisi hotel. 

That evening, as we cleared the red and green 
harbour-lights of Brindisi, Colvin explained. This 
is his story in his own words. 

“ When I was travelling in India some years 


PERCIVAL LANDON 


173 


ago, I made the acquaintance of a youngish man 
in the Woods and Forests. We camped out 
together for a week, and I found him a pleasant 
companion. John Broughton was a light-hearted 
soul when off duty, but a steady and capable man 
in any of the small emergencies that continually 
arise in that department. He was liked and trusted 
by the natives, and though a trifle over-pleased 
with himself when he escaped to civilisation at 
Simla or Calcutta, Broughton’s future was well 
assured in Government service, when a fair-sized 
estate was unexpectedly left to him, and he joy¬ 
fully shook the dust of the Indian plains from his 
feet and returned to England. For five years he 
drifted about London. I saw him now and then. 
We dined together about every eighteen months, 
and I could trace pretty exactly the gradual sicken¬ 
ing of Broughton with a merely idle life. He then 
set out on a couple of long voyages, returned as 
restless as before, and at last told me that he had 
decided to marry and settle down at his place, 
Thurnley Abbey, which had long been empty. He 
spoke about looking after the property and stand¬ 
ing for his constituency in the usual way. Vivien 
Wilde, his fiancee, had, I suppose, begun to take 
him in hand. She was a pretty girl with a deal 
of fair hair and rather an exclusive manner; deeply 
religious in a narrow school, she was still kindly 
and high-spirited, and I thought that Broughton 
was in luck. He was quite happy and full of infor¬ 
mation about his future. 


174 


THURNLEY ABBEY 


“ Among other things, I asked him about Thurn- 
ley Abbey. He confessed that he hardly knew 
the place. The last tenant, a man called Clarke, 
had lived in one wing for fifteen years and seen no 
one. He had been a miser and a hermit. It was 
the rarest thing for a light to be seen at the Abbey 
after dark. Only the barest necessities of life 
were ordered, and the tenant himself received them 
at the side-door. His one half-caste manservant, 
after a month’s stay in the house, had abruptly 
left without warning, and had returned to the 
Southern States. One thing Broughton complained 
bitterly about: Clarke had wilfully spread the 
rumour among the villagers that the Abbey was 
haunted, and had even condescended to play 
childish tricks with spirit-lamps and salt in order 
to scare trespassers away at night. He had been 
detected in the act of this tomfoolery, but the 
story spread, and no one, said Broughton, would 
venture near the house except in broad daylight. 
The hauntedness of Thurnley Abbey was now, he 
said with a grin, part of the gospel of the country¬ 
side, but he and his young wife were going to 
change all that. Would I propose myself any time 
I liked? I, of course, said I would, and equally, 
of course, intended to do nothing of the sort with¬ 
out a definite invitation. 

“ The house was put in thorough repair, though 
not a stick of the old furniture and tapestry were 
removed. Floors and ceilings were relaid: the 
roof was made watertight again, and the dust of 


PERCIVAL LANDON 


175 


half a century was scoured out. He showed me 
some photographs of the place. It was called an 
Abbey, though as a matter of fact it had been 
only the infirmary of the long vanished Abbey of 
Closter some five miles away. The larger part of 
this building remained as it had been in pre- 
Reformation days, but a wing had been added in 
Jacobean times, and that part of the house had 
been kept in something like repair by Mr. Clarke. 
He had in both the ground and first floors set a 
heavy timber door, strongly barred with iron, in 
the passage between the earlier and the Jacobean 
parts of the house, and had entirely neglected the 
former. So there had been a good deal of work 
to be done. 

“ Broughton, whom I saw in London two or 
three times about this period, made a deal of fun 
over the positive refusal of the workmen to remain 
after sundown. Even after the electric light had 
been put into every room, nothing would induce 
them to remain, though, as Broughton observed, 
electric light was death on ghosts. The legend of 
the Abbey’s ghosts had gone far and wide, and the 
men would take no risks. They went home in 
batches of five and six, and even during the day¬ 
light hours there was an inordinate amount of 
talking between one another, if either happened 
to be out of sight of his companion. On the whole, 
though nothing of any sort or kind had been con¬ 
jured up even by their heated imaginations during 
their five months’ work upon the Abbey, the belief 


176 


THURNLEY ABBEY 


in the ghosts was rather strengthened than other¬ 
wise in Thurnley because of the men’s confessed 
nervousness, and local tradition declared itself in 
favour of the ghost of an immured nun. 

“ Good old nun!” said Broughton. 

“ I asked him whether in general he believed 
in the possibility of ghosts, and, rather to my 
surprise, he said that he couldn’t say he entirely 
disbelieved in them. A man in India had told 
him one morning in camp that he believed that his 
mother was dead in England, as her vision had 
come to his tent the night before. He had not 
been alarmed, but had said nothing, and the figure 
vanished again. As a matter of fact, the next 
possible dak-walla brought on a telegram announc¬ 
ing the mother’s death. ‘ There the thing was,’ 
said Broughton. But at Thurnley he was practical 
enough. He roundly cursed the idiotic selfish¬ 
ness of Clarke, whose silly antics had caused all 
the inconvenience. At the same time, he couldn’t 
refuse to sympathise to some extent with the 
ignorant workmen. ^ My own idea,’ said he, ‘ is 
that if a ghost ever does come in one’s way, one 
ought to speak to it.’ 

I agreed. Little as I knew of the ghost world 
and its conventions, I had always remembered that 
a spook was in honour bound to wait to be spoken 
to. It didn’t seem much to do, and I felt that the 
sound of one’s own voice would at any rate reas¬ 
sure oneself as to one’s wakefulness. But there 
are few ghosts outside Europe — few, that is, that 


PERCIVAL LANDON 


177 


a white man can see — and I had never been 
troubled with any. However, as I have said, I 
told Broughton that I agreed. 

So the wedding took place, and I went to it 
in a tall hat which I bought for the occasion, and 
the new Mrs. Broughton smiled very nicely at me 
afterwards. As it had to happen, I took the Orient 
Express that evening and was not in England 
again for nearly six months. Just before I came 
back I got a letter from Broughton. He asked 
if I could see him in London or come to Thurnley, 
as he thought I should be better able to help him 
than any one else he knew. His wife sent a nice 
message to me at the end, so I was reassured 
about at least one thing. I wrote from Budapest 
that I would come and see him at Thurnley two 
days after my arrival in London, and as I saun¬ 
tered out of the Pannonia into the Kerepesi Utcza 
to post my letters, I wondered of what earthly 
service I could be to Broughton. I had been out 
with him after tiger on foot, and I could imagine 
few men better able at a pinch to manage their 
own business. However, I had nothing to do, so 
after dealing with some small accumulations of 
business during my absence, I packed a kit-bag 
and departed to Euston. 

I was met by Broughton’s great limousine at 
Thurnley Road station, and after a drive of nearly 
seven miles we echoed though the sleepy streets 
of Thurnley village, into which the main gates of 
the park thrust themselves, splendid with pillars 


178 


THURNLEY ABBEY 


and spread-eagles and tom-cats rampant atop of 
them. I never was a herald, but I know that the 
Broughtons have the right to supporters — Heaven 
knows why! From the gates a quadruple avenue 
of beech trees led inwards for a quarter of a mile. 
Beneath them a neat strip of fine turf edged the 
road and ran back until the poison of the dead 
beech leaves killed it under the trees. There were 
many wheel tracks on the road, and a comfortable 
little pony trap jogged past me laden with a 
country parson and his wife and daughter. Evi¬ 
dently there was some garden party going on at 
the Abbey. The road dropped away to the right 
at the end of the avenue, and I could see the Abb^ey 
across a wide pasturage and a broad lawn thickly 
dotted with guests. 

“ The end of the building was plain. It must 
have been almost mercilessly austere when it was 
first built, but time had crumbled the edges and 
toned the stone down to an orange-lichened grey 
wherever it showed behind its curtain of magnolia, 
jasmine, and ivy. Farther on was the three¬ 
storied Jacobean house, tall and handsome. There 
had not been the slightest attempt to adapt the 
one to the other, but the kindly ivy had glossed 
over the touching-point. There was a tall fleche 
in the middle of the building, surmounting a small 
bell tower. Behind the house there rose the moun¬ 
tainous verdure of Spanish chestnuts all the way 
up the hill. 

“ Broughton had seen me coming from afar, and 


PERCIVAL LANDON 


179 


walked across from his other guests to welcome 
me before turning me over to the butler's care. 
This man was sandy-haired and rather inclined to 
be talkative. He could, however answer hardly 
any questions about the house: he had, he said, 
only been there three weeks. Mindful of what 
Broughton had told me, I made no inquiries about 
ghosts, though the room into which I was shown 
might have justified anything. It was a very large 
low room with oak beams projecting from the 
white ceiling. Every inch of the walls, including 
the doors, was covered with tapestry, and a 
remarkably fine Italian fourpost bedstead, heavily 
draped, added to the darkness and dignity of the 
place. All the furniture was old, well made, and 
dark. Underfoot there was a plain green pile 
carpet, the only new thing about the room except 
the electric light fittings and the jugs and basins. 
Even the looking-glass on the dressing-table was 
an old pyramidal Venetian glass set in heavy 
repousse frame of tarnished silver. 

After a few minutes' cleaning up, I went down¬ 
stairs and out upon the lawn, where I greeted my 
hostess. The people gathered there were of the 
usual country type, all anxious to be pleased and 
roundly curious as to the new master of the Abbey. 
Rather to my surprise, and quite to my pleasure, 
I rediscovered Glenham, whom I had known well 
in the old days in Barotseland: he lived quite close, 
as, he remarked with a grin, I ought to have known. 
‘ But,' he added,' I don't live in a place like this.' 


180 


THURNLEY ABBEY 


He swept his hand to the long, low lines of the 
Abbey in obvious admiration, and then, to my 
intense interest, muttered beneath his breath, 
‘ Thank God!^ He saw that I had overheard him, 
and turning to me said decidedly, ^ Yes, “ thank 
God ’’ I said, and I meant. I wouldn’t live at 
the Abbey for all Broughton’s money.’ 

“ ^ But surely,’ I demurred, ‘ you know that old 
Clarke was discovered in the very act of setting 
light to his bug-a-boos?’ 

“ Glenham shrugged his shoulders. ^ Yes, I 
know about that. But there is something wrong 
with the place still. All I can say is that Brough¬ 
ton is a different man since he has lived here. I 
don’t believe that he will remain much longer. 
But — you’re staying here?—well, you’ll hear all 
about it tonight. There’s a big dinner, I under¬ 
stand.’ The conversation turned off to old remi¬ 
niscences, and Glenham soon after had to go. 

Before I went to dress that evening I had 
twenty minutes’ talk with Broughton in his library. 
There was no doubt that the man was altered, 
gravely altered. He was nervous and fidgety, and 
I found him looking at me only when my eye was 
off him. I naturally asked him what he wanted 
of me. I told him I would do anything I could, 
but that I couldn’t conceive what he lacked that 
I could provide. He said with a lustreless smile 
that there was, however, something, and that he 
would tell me the following morning. It struck 
me that he was somehow ashamed of himself, and 


PERCIVAL LANDON 


181 


perhaps ashamed of the part he was asking me to 
play. However, I dismissed the subject from my 
mind and went up to dress in my palatial room. 
As I shut the door a draught blew out the Queen 
of Sheba from the wall, and I noticed that the 
tapestries were not fastened to the wall at the 
bottom. I have always held very practical views 
about spooks, and it has often seemed to me that 
the slow waving in firelight of loose tapestry upon 
a wall would account for ninety-nine per cent, of 
the stories one hears. Certainly the dignified 
undulation of this lady with her attendants and 
huntsmen — one of whom was untidily cutting the 
throat of a fallow deer upon the very steps on 
which King Solomon, a grey-faced Flemish noble¬ 
man with the order of the Golden Fleece, awaited 
his fair visitor — gave colour to my hypothesis. 

Nothing much happened at dinner. The 
people were very much like those of the garden 
party. A young woman next me seemed anxious 
to know what was being read in London. As 
she was far more familiar than I with the most 
recent magazines and literary supplements, I 
found salvation in being myself instructed in the 
tendencies of modern fiction. All true art, she 
said, was shot through and through with melan¬ 
choly. How vulgar were the attempts at wit that 
marked so many modern books! From the begin¬ 
ning of literature it had always been tragedy that 
embodied the highest attainment of every age. To 
call such works morbid merely begged the ques- 


182 


THURNLEY ABBEY 


tion. No thoughtful man — she looked sternly 
at me through the steel rim of her glasses — could 
fail to agree with me. Of course, as one would, I 
immediately and properly said that I slept with 
Pett Ridge and Jacobs under my pillow at night, 
and that if ‘ Jorrocks ’ weren’t quite so large and 
cornery, I would add him to the company. She 
hadn’t read any of them, so I was saved — for a 
time. But I remember grimly that she said that 
the dearest wish of her life was to be in some 
awful and soul-freezing situation of horror, and 
I remember that she dealt hardly with the hero of 
Nat Paynter’s vampire story, between nibbles at 
her brown-bread ice. She was a cheerless soul, 
and I couldn’t help thinking that if there were 
many such in the neighbourhood, it was not sur¬ 
prising that old Glenham had been stuffed with 
some nonsense or other about the Abbey. Yet 
nothing could well have been less creepy than 
the glitter of silver and glass, and the subdued 
lights and cackle of conversation all round the 
dinner-table. 

“ After the ladies had gone I found myself talk¬ 
ing to the rural dean. He was a thin, earnest man, 
who at once turned the conversation to old Clarke’s 
buffooneries. But, he said, Mr. Broughton had 
introduced such a new and cheerful spirit, not only 
into the Abbey, but, he might say, into the whole 
neighbourhood, that he had great hopes that the 
ignorant superstitions of the past were from hence¬ 
forth destined to oblivion. Thereupon his other 


PERCIVAL LANDON 


183 


neighbour, a portly gentleman of independent 
means and position, audibly remarked, ‘ Amen,’ 
which damped the rural dean, and we talked of 
partridges past, partridges present, and pheasants 
to come. At the other end of the table Broughton 
sat with a couple of his friends, red-faced hunting 
men. Once I noticed that they were discussing 
me, but I paid no attention to it at the time. I 
remembered it a few hours later. 

“ By eleven all the guests were gone, and 
Broughton, his wife, and I were alone together 
under the fine plaster ceiling of the Jacobean 
drawing-room. Mrs. Broughton talked about one 
or two of the neighbours, and then, with a smile, 
said that she knew I would excuse her, shook 
hands with me, and went off to bed. I am not 
very good at analysing things, but I felt that she 
talked a little uncomfortably and with a suspicion 
of effort, smiled rather conventionally, and was 
obviously glad to go. These things seem trifling 
enough to repeat, but I had throughout the faint 
feeling that everything was not square. Under 
the circumstances, this was enough to set me 
wondering what on earth the service could be that 
I was to render — wondering also whether the 
whole business were not some ill-advised jest in 
order to make me come down from London for 
a mere shooting-party. 

“ Broughton said little after she had gone. But 
he was evidently labouring to bring the conver¬ 
sation round to the so-called haunting of the 


184 


THURNLEY ABBEY 


Abbey. As soon as I saw this, of course I asked 
him directly about it. He then seemed at once to 
lose interest in the matter. There was no doubt 
about it: Broughton was somehow a changed man, 
and to my mind he had changed in no way for the 
better. Mrs. Broughton seemed no sufficient 
cause. He was clearly very fond of her, and she 
of him. I reminded him that he was going to tell 
me what I could do for him in the morning, pleaded 
my journey, lighted a candle, and went upstairs 
with him. At the end of the passage leading into 
the old house he grinned weakly and said, ^ Mind, 
if you see a ghost, do talk to it; you said you 
would.’ He stood irresolutely a moment and then 
turned away. At the door of his dressing-room 
he paused once more: ‘ I’m here,’ he called out, 
‘ if you should want anything. Good-night,’ and 
he shut his door. 

“ I went along the passage to my room, 
undressed, switched on a lamp beside my bed, 
read a few pages of the Jungle Book, and then, 
more than ready for sleep, turned the light off 
and went fast asleep. 

“ Three hours later I woke up. There was not 
a breath of wind outside. There was not even a 
flicker of light from the fireplace. As I lay there, 
an ash tinkled slightly as it cooled, but there was 
hardly a gleam of the dullest red in the grate. An 
owl cried among the silent Spanish chestnuts on 
the slope outside. I idly reviewed the events of 


PERCIVAL LANDON 


185 


the day, hoping that I should fall off to sleep again 
before I reached dinner. But at the end I seemed 
as wakeful as ever. There was no help for it. I 
must read my Jungle Book again till I felt ready 
to go off, so I fumbled for the pear at the end of 
the cord that hung down inside the bed, and I 
switched on the bedside lamp. The sudden glory 
dazzled me for a moment. I felt under my pillow 
for my book with half-shut eyes. Then, growing 
used to the light, I happened to look down to the 
foot of my bed. 

“ I can never tell you really what happened 
then. Nothing I could ever confess in the most 
abject words could even faintly picture to you 
what I felt. I know that my heart stopped dead 
and my throat shut automatically. In one instinc¬ 
tive movement I crouched back up against the 
head-boards of the bed, staring at the horror. 
The movement set my heart going again, and 
the sweat dripped from every pore. I am not 
a particularly religious man, but I had always 
believed that God would never allow any super¬ 
natural appearance to present itself to man in 
such a guise and in such circumstances that harm, 
either bodily or mental, could result to him. I 
can only tell you that at that moment both my 
life and my reason rocked unsteadily on their 
seats. 

The other Osiris passengers had gone to bed. 
Only he and I remained leaning over the star- 


186 


THURNLEY ABBEY 


board railing, which rattled uneasily now and then 
under the fierce vibration of the over-engined mail- 
boat. Far over, there were the lights of a few 
fishing-smacks riding out the night, and a great 
rush of white combing and seething water fell out 
and away from us overside. 

At last Colvin went on: 

“ Leaning over the foot of my bed, looking at 
me, was a figure swathed in a rotten and tattered 
veiling. This shroud passed over the head, but 
left both eyes and the right side of the face bare. 
It then followed the line of the arm down to where 
the hand grasped the bed-end. The face was not 
entirely that of a skull, though the eyes and the 
flesh of the face were totally gone. There was a 
thin, dry skin drawn tightly over the features, and 
there was some skin left on the hand. One wisp 
of hair crossed the forehead. It was perfectly still. 
I looked at it, and it looked at me, and my brains 
turned dry and hot in my head. I had still got 
the pear of the electric lamp in my hand, and I 
played idly with it; only I dared not turn the light 
out again. I shut my eyes, only to open them in a 
hideous terror the same second. The thing had 
not moved. My heart was thumping, and the sweat 
cooled me as it evaporated. Another cinder tinkled 
in the grate, and a panel creaked in the wall. 

“ My reason failed me. For twenty minutes, 
or twenty seconds, I was able to think of nothing 
else but this awful figure, till there came, hurtling 


PERCIVAL LANDON 


187 


through the empty channels of my senses, the 
remembrance that Broughton and his friends had 
discussed me furtively at dinner. The dim pos¬ 
sibility of its being a hoax stole gratefully into my 
unhappy mind, and once there, one^s pluck came 
creeping back along a thousand tiny veins. My 
first sensation was one of blind unreasoning thank¬ 
fulness that my brain was going to stand the trial. 
I am not a timid man, but the best of us needs 
some human handle to steady him in time of 
extremity, and in this faint but growing hope that 
after all it might be only a brutal hoax, I found the 
fulcrum that I needed. At last I moved. 

How I managed to do it I cannot tell you, but 
with one spring towards the foot of the bed I got 
within arm’s-length and struck out one fearful 
blow with my fist at the thing. It crumbled under 
it, and my hand was cut to the bone. With the 
sickening revulsion after my terror, I dropped half- 
fainting across the end of the bed. So it was 
merely a foul trick after all. No doubt the trick 
had been played many a time before; no doubt 
Broughton and his friends had had some large bet 
among themselves as to what I should do when I 
discovered the gruesome thing. From my state of 
abject terror I found myself transported into an 
insensate anger. I shouted curses upon Brough¬ 
ton. I dived rather than climbed over the bed-end 
on to the sofa. I tore at the robed skeleton — 
how well the whole thing had been carried out, I 
thought — I broke the skull against the floor, and 


188 


THURNLEY ABBEY 


stamped upon its dry bones. I flung the head 
away under the bed, and rent the brittle bones of 
the trunk in pieces. I snapped the thin thigh¬ 
bones across my knee, and flung them in different 
directions. The shin-bones I set up against a stool 
and broke with my heel. I raged like a Berserker 
against the loathly thing, and stripped the ribs 
from the backbone and slung the breastbone 
against the cupboard. My fury increased as the 
work of destruction went on. I tore the frail rot¬ 
ten veil into twenty pieces, and the dust went up 
over everything, over the clean blotting-paper and 
the silver inkstand. At last my work was done. 
There was but a raffle of broken bones and strips 
of parchment and crumbling wool. Then, picking 
up a piece of the skull — it was the cheek and 
temple bone of the right side, I remember — I 
opened the door and went down the passage to 
Broughton^s dressing-room. I remember still how 
my sweat-dripping pyjamas clung to me as I 
walked. At the door I kicked and entered. 

“ Broughton was in bed. He had already turned 
the light on and seemed shrunken and horrified. 
For a moment he could hardly pull himself to¬ 
gether. Then I spoke. I don’t know what I said. 
Only I know that from a heart full and over-full 
with hatred and contempt, spurred on by shame 
of my own recent cowardice, I let my tongue run 
on. He answered nothing. I was amazed at my 
own fluency. My hair still clung lankily to my wet 
temples, my hand was bleeding profusely, and I 


PERCIVAL LANDON 


189 


must have looked a strange sight. Broughton hud¬ 
dled himself up at the head of the bed just as I 
had. Still he made no answer, no defence. He 
seemed preoccupied with something besides my 
reproaches, and once or twice moistened his lips 
with his tongue. But he could say nothing, though 
he moved his hands now and then, just as a baby 
who cannot speak moves its hands. 

At last the door into Mrs. Broughton’s room 
opened and she came in, white and terrified. 

‘ What is it? What is it? Oh, in God’s name! 
what is it?’ she cried again and again, and then 
she went up to her husband and sat on the bed 
in her night-dress, and the two faced me. I told 
her what the matter was. I spared her husband 
not a word for her presence there. Yet he seemed 
hardly to understand. I told the pair that I had 
spoiled their cowardly joke for them. Broughton 
looked up. 

“ ^ I have smashed the foul thing into an hun¬ 
dred pieces,’ I said. Broughton licked his lips 
again and his mouth worked. ‘ By God! ’ I shouted, 
^ it would serve you right if I thrashed you within 
an inch of your life. I will take care that not a 
decent man or woman of my acquaintance ever 
speaks to you again. And there,’ I added, throw¬ 
ing the. broken piece of the skull upon the floor 
beside his bed, ‘ there is a souvenir for you, of 
your damned work tonight!’ 

“ Broughton saw the bone, and in a moment it 
was his turn to frighten me. He squealed like a 


190 


THURNLEY ABBEY 


hare caught in a trap. He screamed and screamed 
till Mrs. Broughton, almost as bewildered as 
myself, held on to him and coaxed him like a child 
to be quiet. But Broughton — and as he moved I 
thought that ten minutes ago I perhaps looked as 
terribly ill as he did — thrust her from him, and 
scrambled out of the bed on to the floor, and still 
screaming put out his hand to the bone. It had 
blood on it from my hand. He paid no attention 
to me whatever. In truth I said nothing. This 
was a new turn indeed to the horrors of the eve¬ 
ning. He rose from the floor with the bone in his 
hand, and stood silent. He seemed to be listening. 
‘ Time, time, perhaps,’ he muttered, and almost at 
the same moment fell at full length on the carpet, 
cutting his head against the fender. The bone flew 
from his hand and came to rest near the door. I 
picked Broughton up, haggard and broken, with 
blood over his face. He whispered hoarsely and 
quickly, ‘ Listen, listen!’ We listened. 

After ten seconds’ utter quiet, I seemed to 
hear something. I could not be sure, but at last 
there was no doubt. There was a quiet sound as 
of one moving along the passage. Little regular 
steps came towards us over the hard oak flooring. 
Broughton moved to where his wife sat, white 
and speechless, on the bed, and pressed her face 
into his shoulder. 

Then, the last thing that I could see as he 
turned the light out, he fell forward with his own 
head pressed into the pillow of the bed. Some- 


PERCIVAL LANDON 


191 


thing in their company, something in their cow¬ 
ardice, helped me, and I faced the open doorway 
of the room, which was outlined fairly clearly 
against the dimly lighted passage. I put out one 
hand and touched Mrs. Broughton’s shoulder in 
the darkness. But at the last moment I too failed. 
I sank on my knees and put my face in the bed. 
Only we all heard. The footsteps came to the 
door, and there they stopped. The piece of bone 
was lying a yard inside the door. There was a 
rustle of moving stuff, and the thing was in the 
room. Mrs. Broughton was silent: I could hear 
Broughton’s voice praying, muffled, in the pillow: 
I was cursing my own cowardice. Then the steps 
moved out again on the oak boards of the passage, 
and I heard the sounds dying away. In a flash 
of remorse I went to the door and looked out. At 
the end of the corridor I thought I saw something 
that moved away. A moment later the passage 
was empty. I stood with my forehead against the 
jamb of the door almost physically sick. 

“ ‘ You can turn the light on,’ I said, and there 
was an answering flare. There was no bone at my 
feet. Mrs. Broughton had fainted. Broughton 
was almost useless, and it took me ten minutes to 
bring her to. Broughton only said one thing worth 
remembering. For the most part he went on mut¬ 
tering prayers. But I was glad afterwards to 
recollect that he had said that thing. He said 
in a colourless voice, half as a question, half as 
a reproach, ^ You didn’t speak to her.’ 


192 


THURNLEY ABBEY 


“ We spent the remainder of the night together. 
Mrs. Broughton actually fell off into a kind of 
sleep before dawn, but she suffered so horribly 
in her dreams that I shook her into consciousness 
again. Never was dawn so long in coming. Three 
or four times Broughton spoke to himself. Mrs. 
Broughton would then just tighten her hold on 
his arm, but she could say nothing. As for me, 
I can honestly say that I grew worse as the hours 
passed and the light strengthened. The two 
violent reactions had battered down my steadi¬ 
ness of view, and I felt that the foundations of my 
life had been built upon the sand. I said nothing, 
and after binding up my hand with a towel, I did 
not move. It was better so. They helped me 
and I helped them, and we all three knew that 
our reason had gone very near to ruin that night. 
At last, when the light came in pretty strongly, 
and the birds outside were chattering and singing, 
we felt that we must do something. Yet we never 
moved. You might have thought that we should 
particularly dislike being found as we were by the 
servants: yet nothing of that kind mattered a 
straw, and an overpowering listlessness bound us 
as we sat, until Chapman, Broughton’s man, 
actually knocked and opened the door. None of 
us moved. Broughton, speaking hardly and stiffly, 
said, ‘ Chapman, you can come back in five 
minutes.’ Chapman was a discreet man, but it 
would have made no difference to us if he had 
carried his news to the ‘ room ’ at once. 


PERCIVAL LANDON 


193 


‘‘We looked at each other and I said I must go 
back. I meant to wait outside till Chapman 
returned. I simply dared not re-enter my bedroom 
alone. Broughton roused himself and said that 
he would come with me. Mrs. Broughton agreed 
to remain in her own room for five minutes if 
the blinds were drawn up and all the doors left 
open. 

“ So Broughton and I, leaning stiffly one against 
the other, went down to my room. By the morn¬ 
ing light that filtered past the blinds we could 
see our way, and I released the blinds. There was 
nothing wrong in the room from end to end, except 
smears of my own blood, on the end of the bed, on 
the sofa, and on the carpet where I had torn the 
thing to pieces.’’ 

Colvin had finished his story. There was nothing 
to say. Seven bells stuttered out from the fo’c’sle, 
and the answering cry wailed through the dark¬ 
ness. I took him downstairs. 

“ Of course I am much better now, but it is a 
kindness of you to let me sleep in your cabin.” 


THE FOUNTAIN 


By Elinor Mordaunt 

In some way or other we are most of us 
peculiarly touched by one special attribute of 
Nature: by the sea, by running water, by winds, 
mountains, trees; some more so, some less; others, 
again, so little that nothing, apart from their own 
appetites, appears to move them. 

I judge these people by certain fixed insensi¬ 
bilities. They are neither depressed nor elated 
by the weather; they are unable to hear the bat^s 
sharp note, the singing sound of a pigeon’s wings 
in the air, or catch the scent of the bean-flower. 
They cannot tell the time of day without a watch, 
and sleep through that night-hour when the world 
turns, half rises, and shakes itself. Unless it be 
so suddenly warm as to force them to change their 
underwear, they are perfectly unaware of the com¬ 
ing of spring, that time when the blackbird’s song 
thrills like the passing of the Holy Spirit; when 
the adder slips its skin in the warm quarry, while 
the bark upon the beech is soft and supple as a 
lady’s glove. 

And yet those who feel nothing whatever — 
though they seem to be standing for ever in their 
own light, blocking their own view — are an easier 

'From Short Shipments, 


194 


ELINOR MORDAUNT 


195 


fit into the scheme of things than those who are 
ruled by one single element of nature, far more 
completely a part of it than the sailor and his 
ship are a part of the sea; living by it and with it: 
in some strange way — not physically, but spirit¬ 
ually — a part of it. How can I explain? Well, 
as the old gods were one with their fountains, 
woods, groves. 

Of all these people the most elusive are those 
who have this — far and away, prenatal — affinity 
with running water. Between these and the people 
of the marshes, leaden-eyed, straight-haired, 
heavy-foo-ted, slow and deep as the turgid waters 
which rule them, there is so much difference that 
it seems impossible to believe that any single 
function of their lives can be the same. 

You, my friend, to whom I write, may wonder 
at this long preamble; and yet without it how 
could I tell my story, gain the point I would 
impress, that point without which the whole 
thing — tragic enough in all conscience — would 
be nothing more than a confused medley of 
mishaps? 

People of a single element and people of com¬ 
bined elements, however weighed with one 
another, but more particularly if one sink ever 
so little to the mere animal, can never mix. Their 
consciences, their training may force them to com¬ 
pliance; but only for a while, however much they 
themselves may agonise over their own inadapta¬ 
bility. For it is ludicrous to imagine that cold 


196 


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people never feel their own coldness, inarticulate 
people fret at their own lack of expression; or 
that the dull and quiet are free from all desire for 
the lightness and gaiety of some more vivacious 
neighbour. The thing is that we may alter our¬ 
selves for a time, more particularly at the call of 
love, but forever must we spring back again like 
a bent bough to our own natural habit. 

Sylvia Colquhoun belonged by nature to the 
people of the springs, with a nature so refined, so 
crystal clear, yet in a way so detached that there 
was nothing for her husband’s clumsy hands to 
grasp. She poured herself into them. Oh, yes; 
she gave and gave, for she had been taught that 
everything, the whole body and soul of a woman, 
belongs to the man she marries; was as dismayed 
as he was — more so, for she was so much the 
more sensitive when she realised her failure — 
that they were sliding apart, that she could no 
more keep herself within his grasp than he with 
his nature could help letting her go. 

One thing I know, and that is her heart was 
broken — as surely as the heart of The Little 
Mermaid ”— between self-reproach and sorrow. 
For she believed that, from the very beginning, 
it was all her fault; realising how she shrank from 
her husband’s obvious passions, drawn herself back 
within herself, conscious of a sense of pollution. 
What she failed to realise was how little Col¬ 
quhoun realised anything of the sort: if he had 
possessed discrimination enough for that it might 


ELINOR MORDAUNT 


197 


have been possible for him to cool his hot mouth 
at the fount of a love which was infinitely pure 
and unchanging, “ forever fresh and still to be 
enjoyed’’; to realise that there is more than one 
sort of happiness to be found with a woman. 

She was fresh from a convent when he married 
her: friendship and kindred interests, the ordered 
shaping of thought and time, had surrounded her 
like a close-woven fence of wattles, sprouting green 
enough with innocent mirth. When first I knew 
her I thought I had never heard anything so 
delicious as her laugh, and there is no doubt about 
it that she felt stripped, alone in the open of life 
with this man and his boisterous moods, his noisy 
greed, his absorption in his appetites. 

Of course, everything he said and did must be 
right, because he was her husband. But, then, 
what of the delicacies, the reservations which had 
been instilled into her from her cradle upward? 
Someone or something was wrong here. 

The honeymoon was spent in Paris. I think she 
was too bewildered at that time to realise any¬ 
thing over-clearly but she was very tired, drawn 
to a milk-like whiteness by the time she reached 
her new home. Her portrait is hanging on the 
wall opposite to me now, as I write. I painted 
it myself, and I kept it. Colquhoun had her — 
her, herself — as much as he was capable of grasp¬ 
ing, and I had my picture, and have it still, while 
he. . . . But that comes later. 

She was very fair and delicately made, remind- 


198 


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ing me of a wood-anemone from the first day I 
saw her; her hair almost silver, her complexion 
pale and clear. Her head drooped a little on her 
slender neck, her shoulders sloped a trifle: her 
hands were long and slender and very white; she 
was the most graceful thing I ever saw. The 
portrait — as I word it, not the picture itself — 
carries something of an early Victorianism, a cer¬ 
tain insipidity. But she could never have been 
insipid, for her eyes remained to be reckoned with 
— hazel-golden-brown — or grey with the warm 
lights of the willow catkin — it was difficult to 
say precisely which; they were so seldom the same 
for two minutes together, were like a stream for 
ever changing and reflecting; though I inclined to 
hazel in my picture, and I think that was the tint 
they most often showed when she was thoughtful 
and at rest. 

The window of her own sitting-room fronted 
the long path which ends in the half-circle of ilex 
trees with the mountains beyond them; beneath 
the shadow of the ilex lay the pool in its blackness. 

She went to her room almost immediately after 
her arrival home from her honeymoon, and pass¬ 
ing through to the boudoir stood gazing out while 
her maid opened her trunks and lifted out the 
trays. Her husband found her there, and coming 
behind her put both hands over her shoulders, 
undid the wide blue ribbon of her little grey motor- 
bonnet, and taking it off, smoothed her silvery fair 
hair, already silky-smooth either side of the parting. 


ELINOR MORDAUNT 


199 


breaking into curls above the ears; then tipped 
back her face and kissed her on the lips more 
quietly than was his wont. 

“ Well, little wife, what do you think of it all?^’ 

She pressed back against him, thankful for his 
nearness in the vaguely sad mood which had over¬ 
come her; for it was a still evening, an evening 
which showed that curious detachment and calm 
which comes with a colourless sunset and still 
air, which there was nothing in Colquhoun’s touch 
to disturb. 

“ It is sad; the dark trees and mountains and 
the dark water; still-water always hurts me — I 
don^t know why, but seems to hurt me here.” She 
touched her breast as she spoke, with a little laugh 
at herself. 

The man answered her laugh indulgently, for 
she was still a new and curious toy: “You 
women! All alike, all full of whimsies. But the 
pool is not so still as it looks; there’s a damnable 
underpull, as I know to my cost, for I was nearly 
drowned there as a boy. The water runs in and 
out, is fed continuously by seven springs which 
lie close together farther up the hill.” 

“ Then if there are springs to feed it with there 
should be a fountain,” she cried, laughing and 
clapping her hands, her pensiveness swept clear 
away by her childish pleasure at the thought. 
“ How I would love to see it spraying up against 
those dark trees! All sparkling, rising and falling, 
full of light and shade — like life,” she added more 


200 


THE FOUNTAIN 


slowly, as if struck with some premonition, for 
there had been little enough of shade in her 
eighteen summers. But the mood was soon past, 
and she turned, clinging coaxingly to her hus¬ 
band’s arm, looking up at him, her eyes alight, her 
face delicately flushed. “ Oh, Harry, do make me 
a fountain in the pool, so that I may see the 
moving water from my window; and let us grow 
a high hedge of pink and crimson roses either 
side of the path which leads to it—^ The Way 
of Love ’— that’s what we will call it —^ The Way 
of Love.’ ” 

Alas, she had another name for it not so many 
months later —“ ^ Via Dolorosa ’— that’s what I 
call it,” she said; and then added as though afraid 
that she had betrayed too much, ‘‘ I’m sure there 
were never any roses with such thorns!” 

For she got her flowers and her fountain, as I 
think she could have got anything at the time: 
a naked boy carved in stone, with head thrown 
back and a curved horn through which, night and 
day, he blew a feathery plume of water high into 
the air. But by the time it was completed Harry 
Colquhoun was already a trifle tired of his idyll, 
and all pastoral pleasures apart from sport. 

Luckily there were neighbouring squires, and 
London friends who came to stay, sometimes for 
weeks at a time. His friends, not hers, for she 
hardly knew anyone apart from her school com¬ 
panions, who would scarcely have met the case, 
unless it were one, a dashing, bold-eyed bru- 


ELINOR MORDAUNT 


201 


nette, named Judith, who had been the despair 
of the nuns, and who wrote more than once declar¬ 
ing that she meant to come and stay with her 

darling sweet Sylvia,’’ for whom she had pro¬ 
fessed an almost overwhelming devotion; though it 
was not sufficient, during some two years, to pre¬ 
vent her finding the prospect of other visits more 
alluring. 

It was during those months of early summer, 
just after her marriage, that I painted that por¬ 
trait of my lady; and well I remember that 
Colquhoun was in a fury because she shivered 
ever so little in her white dress, rounding on me 
as though I were a servant for allowing her to 
stand in a draught. But I swallowed it as I would 
have swallowed anything for her sake, and kept 
him reminded of the careless invitation, which he 
gave me at parting, to look them up again some 
day soon; for I was certain, even then, that life 
was not going to prove too easy for the young wife. 

Perhaps that first summer was not so bad; but 
then came the sad autumn with haunting winds, 
and a long dank winter —“ an open season,” I 
believe they call it — during which Colquhoun 
spent most of his days with the hounds, and his 
evenings sleeping in a big chair before the fire, 
very red in the face and heavy in the jowl, 
save when there were visitors staying in the house: 
silent men with a passion for cards, noisy men 
with an equal passion for practical jokes; and loud- 
voiced, smartly-dressed women who brought their 


202 


THE FOUNTAIN 


own special friends with them, and regarded their 
hostess no more than the flowers on the dinner- 
table. 

The rose trees at either side of the long path 
grev/ apace, but they did not flower as they ought 
to have done. To make up for this, however, the 
fountain was like a perpetual, ever-fresh spray of 
blossom against the background of dark trees, and 
directly spring crept round again Sylvia Col- 
quhoun, more and more alone, began to spend 
hours by its side, trailing her white fingers in the 
water, all dimpled and alive with showering drops. 

Colquhoun laughed at her, jeered rather. “ A 
pretty sort of wife, like a fish! For all the world 
like a fish!’^ 

A friend sent him a live carp and he put it 
in the pool —“ Just the sort of mate for that cold¬ 
blooded wife of mine,’’ he declared. 

He insisted more and more on her coldness; it 
served as an excuse for much, both to himself and 
others. 

“ Poor dear Harry ”— that was what the women 
said. What can anyone expect of a man tied 
to an insipid creature like that?” 

“ She doesn’t care.” 

No, she doesn’t care; a woman like that has 
milk and water instead of blood in her veins.” 

And a damned good thing too,” put in Lady 
Hardy, who looked and spoke like a fishwife, but 
had more heart than the rest of them all put 
together. I heard myself slap out at them, in 


ELINOR MORDAUNT 


203 


response to the oft-repeated excuse for anything 
which might seem amiss in Colquhoun’s morals. 

Vd be devilish sorry for any gal that cared two 
pins for that wine-laden, dog-eyed creature!’’ 

There was a universal squeak at this. Oh, 
Lady Hardy! How can you! We all love him; 
the dearest thing in the world, poor Harry!” 

You, you! You love him with your skins; 
it goes no deeper than that. Stroke you and you 
purr; give you cream to lap and another woman 
to sharpen your claws upon and you’re happy.” 

I suppose that by this time pretty well every¬ 
one knew of Colquhoun’s infidelities, all, that is, 
save Sylvia herself. 

I went down once for a Saturday to Monday 
during the next autumn, but got little happiness 
out of my visit, for the house was full, and the 
mistress of it white and wistful-eyed, as elusive 
as a shadow. . 

“ She mopes,” said Colquhoun. ‘‘ That damned 
pool!— she’ll tumble in some day and drown her¬ 
self, and that will be the end of it.” 

He did not ask me to repeat my visit to Cat- 
traeth again that time, perhaps because, going 
down to the smoking-room in search of a pet pipe, 
late one night when I thought the whole house¬ 
hold was well asleep, I found him with “ a damsel 
dark upon his knee ”— plump and dark, and after 
all no damsel, but another man’s wife. 

I well remember his incongruous demand, as I 
stood hesitating, between awkwardness and dis- 


204 


THE FOUNTAIN 


gust, as to “ what in the name of God ” I wanted 
there. He was not in the least ashamed or fright¬ 
ened, I grant him that, only angry and impatient 
to get on with his amour. 

Close on two years slipped by before I went 
down to North Wales again. It was the first week 
in August, and Harry Colquhoun was just back 
from Monte Carlo, very ill-tempered and restless 
and, or so I believe, short of money. There was 
no one else staying in the house, and perhaps he 
had been bored enough to suggest my being asked, 
for it was out of season for most sport and he had 
no patience for fishing. It is certain that he was 
more bored than any man I have ever seen, and 
scarcely stirred out, sat indoors, smoked, yawned, 
drank. 

My Lady of the Fountain,^’ as I had grown 
to call her, was more elusive than ever; she did 
not avoid me, but she was no longer friendly and 
intimate as she had been; though it was evident 
that she liked having me there, for each time I 
spoke of leaving she was in a sort of panic, as 
though afraid of being more alone. 

“ I shall slip quite away if you go,” she cried 
one day, actually tugging at my sleeve with some¬ 
thing of her old childish impulse, between laughter 
and tears, with that sort of friendliness which I 
had grown to miss. 

I remember well how the phrase, slip quite 
away,” haunted me, with a sense of some sub¬ 
conscious meaning, until several nights later, when 


ELINOR MORDAUNT 


205 


I lay awake thinking of her, as always — listen¬ 
ing to the owPs dismal cry — it came to me that 
this, after all, was what she had been doing all 
those months — slipping away. 

And I remember thinking that there was 
really very little of her left to follow. To follow 
what? I can scarcely say, but that part of her 
which seemed to have already stolen away. To 
put it more plainly, I thought that if anything 
happened to her body now there would be no 
great uprooting, so impressed was I by her air as 
of a creature apart, and — I know the word must 
give a wrong impression of something heartless, 
but I cannot help it — inhuman. 

It was like Daphne, and had Colquhoun been 
one whit less gross I might have felt some sym¬ 
pathy for him, “ pursuing a maiden and clasping 
a tree ’’— or even less warm, less lifelike in . . . 
well, in the sense in which we count life. 

And yet though she seemed all spirit, she was 
not the sort of woman to whom one could apply 
the word “ spiritually-minded,’’ with whom one 
could even connect the idea of a conventional 
heaven; for it was not the earth — the world of 
pure nature — for which she was unfitted. In 
her sadness and gladness, in her every mood, she 
was essentially of it, at its purest and best; it 
was the people in it whom she found so difficult. 
I often wonder what they had really made of her 
at the convent. There were so many things she 
could not grasp, things which are part of the faith 


206 


THE FOUNTAIN 


of our country which must have seemed to her just 
stupid or cruel. 

I remember Colquhoun, with the odd incon- 
sequency of such people, actually complaining that 
she never went to church. Damn it all!’’ he 
said, “ but a man likes to see his wife a bit 
religious; proper sort of thing, you know, particu¬ 
larly in the country.” 

But she was not religious, or spiritually-minded; 
and she was not — as I have said before — in 
all ways quite human. There was that coldness 
and elusiveness; there was the fact of her not 
caring for children, shrinking from them, indeed, 
which was the one trait in her character that 
jarred me, until I caught sight of her face one 
day, as she stood watching a mother playing with 
a two-year-old on a cottage doorstep, and realised 
an expression in her eyes as piteously sad as any 
Peri at the gate of Paradise. I do not think — 
and I grew to realise her in a way that was almost 
uncanny, “ felt ” her every mood — it was so much 
that she desired a child (I remember her shrinking 
when someone offered to let her hold a baby in 
her arms), as that she wished, with a desperate 
craving of her heart, that she were able to feel 
as other women felt. 

For a while Harry Colquhoun had held her to 
humanity. I verily believe it was his kisses which 
first woke her to life as we know it; for red-faced 
and blustering he was yet the sun of her spring¬ 
time. And, strange to say, he held her still, though 


ELINOR MORDAUNT 


207 


she seemed to have given up her strained en¬ 
deavour to satisfy him, standing apart with the 
puzzled pain of a child who cannot realise where it 
has failed. 

Then there came a letter from Judith Farroll, 
actually fixing a date when she would be free to 
visit her “ darling Sylvia.” 

My lady broached the subject at luncheon — 
which was Harry Colquhoun’s breakfast out of 
the hunting season — nervously enough, for one 
never knew what tiny spark might set him off in 
a blaze. 

“ More milk and water!” he sneered; but still 
he took it well enough; there was a blank fort¬ 
night before his own friends were due to arrive, 
a houseful of them, and anything was better than 
nothing. 

^‘Anything better than nothing!” as if there 
could be anything negative about Judith. “ Milk 
and water!”—flesh and flame, rather! 

She was tall, small-waisted, deep-bosomed, with 
luscious dark eyes, the colour of carnations in her 
cheeks, and a full red underlip, pulled a little out 
of shape with biting and pouting. She was 
glancing sideways at Harry as she folded her friend 
in her arms that first evening, and he was fired in 
a moment. I saw that. 

She permeated the house. She was like a flower 
with an over-heavy perfume; upon my soul, I 
believe there was something noxiously sweet in 
her very atmosphere; between that and her rich 


208 


THE FOUNTAIN 


voice at the piano, when she sang to Colquhoun, 
looking up as he lounged across it, one knee on a 
stool at her side, her floating chiffon scarfs, the 
tap of her high heels on the polished floors, the 
house was never free to draw breath. Only in 
the garden by the fountain was coolness and quiet, 
my lady sitting trailing her white fingers in the 
water, none the less lonely for the advent of her 
friend. 

Even when the other visitors arrived Judith 
queened it over them. One night when the 
mistress of the house was unwell she sat at the 
head of the table, wearing a satin gown of the 
rich colour of the outer cup of a wine-tinted 
magnolia, and a diamond necklace, which she 
involuntarily fingered as though it were something 
new and she was not yet accustomed to the weight 
of it on her firm white neck; while Harry Col¬ 
quhoun drank steadily and devoured her — there is 
no other word for it — with his moist, bloodshot 
eyes. 

I stayed on and on. I don’t think Colquhoun 
troubled his head about me, and I would not 
have cared if he had, for the time had come when 
I believed that my lady might need me. 

But she did not; I might have known that. She 
never really needed anyone save that coarse brute 
who owned her; and when the trouble came she 
took her own quiet way of dealing with it. 

Perhaps she could not sleep; she had often com¬ 
plained of sleeplessness, and I believe she was as 


ELINOR MORDAUNT 


209 


restless as the wind of dawn, that wind which the 
sailors learn to look for with dread. Anyhow, 
slipping silently downstairs one morning with what 
restless longing for the open, God only knows, she 
encountered her husband coming out of Judith 
Far roll’s room. 

She might have sought the solace which had 
never failed her at the side of the pool with its 
fountain, grown faint and fallen in. Anyhow that 
is what Colquhoun declared must have happened. 

She would not have been such a fool as to — 
to . . Even his lips, looking all the grosser 
for their trembling pallor, refused to frame that 
word. It would put him “ in such a damned 
awkward position ” if anyone suspected anything 
of the sort. Anyhow it was all part of his pesti¬ 
lential ill-luck that his wife, of all people, should 
have encountered him that morning. He was 
always perfectly indifferent to the servants, and 
would no more have thought of saving Judith’s 
character than his own. 

It was her maid who found her, going to the 
usual place to warn her mistress that it was time 
to come in and make ready for breakfast; and 
it was I — thank Heaven that I was at least able 
to save her from more indifferent hands — who 
carried her indoors and upstairs to her own room, 
where I laid her on the bed; very sweet and wise¬ 
looking, and no whit disfigured, save that her hair 
hanging either side of her face in two long plaits 
was slightly darkened by the water. 


210 


THE FOUNTAIN 


I stayed on for the funeral, then I went back to 
town. I was deadened by grief, and yet in some 
way relieved. For no one could touch her now; 
something of her had merged with the element 
to which she rightly belonged, and as for the rest, 
the kindly earth would see to that. The main 
thing was that she was free. 

As to Colquhoun, I was conscious of no par¬ 
ticular resentment against him; it seemed scarcely 
his fault that he was sheer animal, warped out 
of all image of divinity by his hard-drinking pro¬ 
genitors; as little responsible as the swine for the 
pearls, infinitely preferring husks. 

After a while I even grew to feel sorry for him. 
He told me, at parting that time, to use the place 
when I needed a breath of country air, wringing 
my hand, with tears in his eyes; for he seemed 
to have grown to count on me in his blundering 
way during that dreadful week of the inquest and 
funeral. 

I went down for a few days that autumn, just 
before the beginning of the hunting season, while 
Colquhoun was still abroad, gambling wildly, from 
what I had heard, with a train of dissolute men 
and women forever at his heels. 

I do not know why I went; but the kind of 
impulse which one feels must be obeyed came to 
me, and I telegraphed to the housekeeper, asking 
her to expect me the very next day. 

She was glad enough to see anyone, poor thing. 
The house was half empty; she could not keep the 


ELINOR MORDAUNT 


211 


servants. That was what she told me at dinner the 
first night, supplementing the services of a raw 
young footman. She made the remark with an 
air of close-lipped secrecy; but as I forebore to 
question her she came out with the whole story 
when she looked in at the smoking-room the last 
thing that night, on the pretence of asking if I 
needed anything more, but really, I am sure, to 
unburden her soul. 

There was something queer about the house. 
The fountain had ceased to play! I interrupted 
her there. Of course I remembered it had stopped 
working that — that day; but surely it had been 
put right since then. 

The housekeeper drew down her underlip and 
smoothed out the front of her black silk gown 
with an Um, urn,” which said as plainly as any 
more definite words, Things are not so simple 
as they may seem to you, in your ignorance, if 
you’ll excuse me, sir.” 

Her broad, colourless face was coruscated with 
numberless lines which seemed to come from 
nowhere and to go nowhere, as though some mad 
surveyor had scratched out the track of innu¬ 
merable roads across some wide, mud-caked flat; 
lines which marked the passage of no particular 
emotion or passion, though at the moment the 
whole was stamped with a look of almost defiant 
fear. And yet there was that sort of pride as of 
a person who has something dreadful to divulge. 

Well, sir, I’m sure I hope you won’t be dis- 


212 


THE FOUNTAIN 


turbed or made uncomfortable in any way,” she 
remarked with an air of one who cherished an 
almost pleasurable knowledge that such would be 
the case. From the mere words one might have 
imagined that she had dropped the subject of the 
fountain; but I was convinced to the contrary and 
drew her on by the simple expedient of saying 
nothing, looking at her with that air of grave 
inquiry which forces people of her stamp to 
words. 

‘^There’s no repairing the danged thing!” she 
burst out suddenly in vehement contradiction to 
my former words; “ how is it possible to do any¬ 
thing with it? At the outside the springs seem 
to have run dry! There’s no water coming from 
the hillside — none to be seen, out there. Bone 
dry! All of them, every single one, the whole 
seven! up above the ground, as deep as they can 
dig. But there’s deeper places than that — the 
water’s somewhere for certain — certain sure. 

An’ if you don’t believe me-” Suddenly she 

drew herself together. “ I’m sure I beg your par¬ 
don, sir, to seem so excited — upset. But it’s 
lonely when the house is empty, an’ not be able 
to talk to the maids an’ all.” 

You’d better sit down, Mrs. Brice.” 

She sat down at once, almost as if her knees 
were shaking under her; well into the chair, too, 
not on the edge as she would ordinarily have done. 

It’s silly of me — but it gets on my nerves. 
An’ those girls, as won’t go upstairs in the dark, 



ELINOR MORDAUNT 


213 


running with their ears back like hares, so to 
speak, and their eyes half out of their heads. And 
the water — well, where did it go?’’ She leant 
a little forward, her hand pressed against the edge 
of the table at which I had been writing. “ That’s 
what they — what we all want to know and are 
yet scared o’ knowing, for certain, that is. Inside 
us ”— she went on with a sudden gesture, strangely 
dramatic in one so servile —inside us we know — 
we all know; those of us that don’t run ourselves 
out in hysterics, and shriekings, and gigglings: we 
know things we daren’t say — making them more 
real by exact words, as it were.” 

About the fountain, you mean? Oh, well, 
I suppose it’s just that the springs have run dry; 
they do sometimes, you know.” 

“ If I thought that was all — could think that 
— should I be sitting here now? Listen!” She 
held up her finger, the further to attract my atten¬ 
tion. The maids are in bed, there’s no one to 
draw water, no one in the house save us two; 
where’s the water coming from now, where is it? 
Tell me that, sir?” She was almost triumphant, 
forgetting her fear. 

For I was conscious of it, and she knew it, 
had been ever since the quiet of the evening fell 
upon the house — that soft, continuous sound of 
running water. 

Some defective pipe, with the air in it.” 

Not it!” All the woman’s obsequiousness was 
lost in the sense of having got me there. I’ve 


214 


THE FOUNTAIN 


had man after man in to see about it, an’ there’s 
nothing to be done, nothing! Of course there’s 
nothing. I’ve never told the maids, I’ve told no 
one.” She spoke proudly there, and indeed there 
was something like heroism in what, by her next 
words, she proved to have kept to herself. “ But 
when they turned it off at the main it was the 
same — running, running, just the same; forever 
running, till it near drives me mad with its trickle. 
Though only at evening, mind you. Night after 
night it goes up and down the stairs, filling the 
house with damp — reeking it is, reeking.” 

Nonsense, nonsense!” 

The housekeeper pushed back her chair and 
rose. There was a fire in the room in which I 
was sitting, and an immense pile of logs burnt in 
the hall. When I arrived about tea-time the 
atmosphere had felt stifling after the frosty air 
outside; but now, as she led me to the foot of the 
stairs, I was struck by a dank moisture, which 
chilled me to the bone, set me shivering with a 
sense of cold water down my back. 

We were obliged to take the carpet off the 
stairs; I daresay you noticed that, sir,” she re¬ 
marked, in a monotonous, droning voice, as though 
determined to put everything in as matter-of-fact 
a light as possible. “ I would have put it down 
when I heard that you were coming, but it wasn’t 
fit. Besides — I’ll trouble you to look what it 
would have been like in one night?— There, now! 
See there!” She stooped, lowering the candle to 


ELINOR MORDAUNT 


215 


the level of the third step, and drew with her 
finger upon the dark oak, all greyed with moisture. 

Straightening herself, she ran her fingers along 
the top of the wide, flat banisters, then made me 
touch my own hand to the underside, where the 
drops hung. 

“ The house is damp.’^ 

Yes, sir, you’re right there. It is damp.” 

She stood for a moment with the candle in one 
hand, the other over her mouth as though she 
felt her lips tremble. “ But it was never damp 
before, when the water in the springs ran the 
way God made it to run. Why wasn’t it never 
damp before?—if you’ll excuse my asking you 
that question, sir. I’ve been here close on thirty 
years, an’ a drier house I never came across. But 
now! It’s wringing, fair wringing! If it was all 
over the house there’d be no grappling with it. 
But it’s only across the hall, and up the stairs, 
and in two rooms — as yet — as yet. But the 
damp and the mould of it! It’s beyond all belief! 
I keep the rooms aired as best I can, kindle the 
fires myself, have them going pretty well night 
and day. I’m fond of the place, fond of Mr. 
Harry. . . . Well, I held him on my knee when 
he was a baby — though he has his faults, as we 
all have.” She dropped to silence for a moment, 
glaring at me. There never used to be anything 
wrong with the house, an’ I won’t give it up unless 
I’m driven; it’s my duty to stand by it. But — 
but — well, it curdles my blood. Nothing to be 


216 


THE FOUNTAIN 


seen, as far as I’m concerned, only the sound of 
running water and the dampness. Though the 
maids do say-” 

“ What do they say?” 

Some say that it’s — it’s — against the light 
there’s nothing, but against anything dark, as it 
were, a picture on the stairway — well, they say 
as how it’s the shadow of the—” she hesitated, 
drawing her shoulders together and turning her 
head furtively, as though the mere words were 
enough to bring the thing to her elbow —“ the 
ghost of — of-” 

The ghost of what?” I was in terror as to 
what her next words might be, and gave vent 
to a boisterous laugh of pure relief when she 
replied that it was “ the ghost of the fountain ” 
which the maids swore to seeing. 

‘‘ That’s good! That’s a joke! I never heard 
of anything like that! The ghost of a fountain! 
As though it had actually lived, possessed a soul. 
Really, Mrs. Brice, really!” 

Still laughing, I took the candle from her hand 
and went upstairs. 

But as I lay awake that night I remembered 
how she had tried to tell me something else, which 
I had half heard as I moved away: confused words 
to the effect that, while to some it seemed like a 
shadowy plume of water, to others it bore the 
aspect of a woman, ethereal as mist. “Both!” 
cried one hussy, brazen with fear, asserting what 
must have seemed, to her own limited intelligence, 




ELINOR MORDAUNT 


217 


an impossibility. '' Both at once! Not altogether 
a woman, nor altogether water.” 

This elaboration of what I endeavoured, against 
my own convictions to regard as a senseless joke, 
came out later, for I lingered on for several weeks, 
restless and miserable, yet unable to tear myself 
away. 

There was a blank air of repression about the 
place. The weather was warm for the time of 
year and very dry, so that it seemed strange to 
look up into the hard, brilliant blue sky and see 
it crossed by nothing more than bare boughs. The 
few early spring flowers were warped and stunted, 
the parched ground cracked; at the bottom of the 
fountain basin was a layer of crusted grey mud; 
even the Cupid with his horn appeared shrunken 
and grey with drought. 

I haunted the empty pool at all hours of the 
day and night, gazing into it as one might gaze 
into the face of a deaf-mute who holds some secret 
upon which one^s whole life depends, with a will 
so intense that it seemed as though it were bound 
to force speech. 

And yet I had no idea what I expected to see 
or hear there; I only knew that I could not keep 
away; that the moment I awoke some formless 
necessity seemed to drag me out of bed, to sit on 
the crumbling stonework at the edge of that 
featureless expanse of stinking soil, my whole 
heart and mind drawn to a fine point by my desire 
to get at the secret of something I could not 


218 


THE FOUNTAIN 


fathom; to understand, to help, to comfort: striv¬ 
ing against nothing and for nothing, with a soul 
as thirsty and arid as the parched earth itself. 

Sometimes when I was alone at night the soft 
sound of running water through the house grew 
to something so like a desolate weeping that I 
would actually cry aloud, asking what was amiss, 
what could be done; and yet out there by the 
side of that empty basin it was even worse. 

At last I could endure my impotency no longer, 
and went away, off to Norway for the summer 
months, and then back to London. 

It was mid-December when I received a curi¬ 
ously urgent telegram from Colquhoun asking me 
to stay with him, and to come as soon as possible 
—for God^s sake.” 

The autumn had been one of furious winds and 
heavy rain. As I drove from the station I saw 
that some of the finest elms in Cattraeth Park had 
been torn up by the roots; one monster, indeed, 
lay right across the road, so that Colquhoun was 
obliged to turn the restive thin-skinned chestnut 
which he was driving on to the grass to avoid 
it. He had formerly been very gentle with 
animals, was noted for his light hands; but I could 
not help noticing how he mismanaged the nervous 
beast, and wondering if I should ever reach the 
house alive between the two of them; whether we 
should both be overturned and pitched out, or 
killed by a falling tree. For even then there was 
half a gale blowing, the sky was whipped into 


ELINOR MORDAUNT 


219 


tangled hanks of grey and white, while the dead 
leaves were driven to heaps in every hollow, the 
short grass flattened to a curious whiteness. 

Colquhoun had almost entreated me to come, 
but he did not appear over-glad to see me. Indeed, 
excepting to curse the trembling mare, he never 
opened his mouth during the whole of the six-mile 
drive. 

We had tea in the smoking-room. At least, I 
had tea; Colquhoun himself took whisky. I 
noticed how his hand shook as he poured it out, 
how he was changed, bloated and yet haggard, 
standing by the fire with his glass on the mantel¬ 
piece, his head drooping between his shrunken 
shoulders, save when he jerked it backwards, star¬ 
ing round defiantly as though asking what right 
anyone had to be up to — God only knows what, 
right at his elbow there; until at last, breaking 
off in the midst of an attempt at conversation he 
turned and left the room, while a moment later I 
heard him cross the hall, open the door that led 
into the garden, and slam it behind him. 

After a while the housekeeper came to ask if 
I would not like to see my room, for there seemed 
to be no proper servants about the place, an 
uncouth boy with frightfully creaking boots and 
not over-clean hands having brought in the tea. 

As I followed her through the hall and up the 
stairs, I was struck by the same overwhelming 
odour of damp as on my last visit. But Mrs. Brice 
volunteered no remark, contented herself with 


220 


THE FOUNTAIN 


merely answering mine; while I noticed some* 
thing taut and rigid about the woman — who had 
grown thinner, and even more leaden-coloured and 
lined — as though she were determined not to 
say a word. 

There was a good fire burning in my room and 
I sat before it, smoking; then, while I was upstairs, 
dressed for dinner in leisurely comfort. 

As I crossed the hall, rather after seven, the 
outer door opened and a boisterous, wet wind 
eddied in, setting every other door in the place 
slamming; while it must have whirled right up 
the stairs, for there was a sound like the report 
of guns along the two corridors above me, and 
the whole house echoed in its emptiness. 

A little Aberdeen bitch, which had left the 
smoking-room at Colquhoun’s heels, ran past me 
yelping, and down the long passage towards the 
kitchen quarters, where she threw herself against 
the baize door and disappeared. 

As I turned I saw that my host had entered 
the hall, and wondered if he had kicked the poor 
beast, or what had happened to upset it so. 

But the next moment I was undeceived on this 
point, for he began whistling and calling to her, 
almost tenderly. 

“ She^s gone through the baize door to the 
kitchen,’^ said I. 

Ah, well, she’s chosen the best part of the 
house, it’s warm and dry there. Poor bitch, she 
can’t stand it, and no wonder.” 


ELINOR MORDAUNT 


221 


“ Can’t stand what?” 

“What — what! why, what’s with me, to be 
sure,” he answered morosely, and brushed past, 
too much absorbed in his own misery to realise 
his rudeness or trouble himself as to whether or 
no I understood his words. 

He had been out for at least two hours, and all 
that time I had heard the rain beating against the 
windows. 

“ You must be wringing wet; you’ll catch your 
death,” I said, for I saw he had no overcoat, that 
his clothes clung round him, while the water 
poured from him in pools. 

At this he laughed wildly, pausing half-way up 
the stairs and looking down at me, with a sort of 
fierce raillery in his glance. 

“ Catch my death! Not I, not that way, any¬ 
how! I’m used to it, or ought to be,” he said, and 
then I thought I heard him add, as he turned and 
stumped upwards — as heavily as though his limbs 
were leaden-weighted—“Catch my death! No 
such luck; I only wish I could!” 

That evening, dinner over, we sat in the 
smoking-room, silent, for my brain had already 
exhausted itself in the search for some topic of 
conversation which would not drop dead the 
moment it was launched, killed by a dark, uncom¬ 
prehending stare from my host, or, worse still, 
an utterly misplaced comment. 

We were both smoking, Colquhoun sitting with 
his chair almost into the fire, bending forward with 


222 


THE FOUNTAIN 


his elbows on his knees — save when he jerked 
round with that defiant stare — shivering as 
though he were in an ague; while Wasp, the 
Aberdeen, sitting pressed against her master^s 
knee, shivered as he shivered, with her eyes fixed 
on his face as though awaiting some word of 
command. The ripple of running water was very 
distinct through the house, and there was a 
desperate sadness in the sound which can be so 
pleasant and cheerful. 

I think I must have said something to start 
Colquhoun off; I don’t know. If I did it was 
wiped out of my mind by the torrent of words 
into which he suddenly launched forth. 

I can’t stand it any longer, Herries; that’s 
why I sent for you. No one else will come, no 
one else will stay in the house, and no wonder! 
That infernal din of running water! I tell you 
it is driving me mad. Water on the brain, I 
suppose that’s what it is, eh, eh? A funny thing 
for me to have!” He gave an ugly laugh, which 
terminated suddenly, as though it were broken 
off. “ That damned tricklin’ and gurglin’! Hear 
it now? ... Or perhaps you can’t hear it, eh? 
It’s not there; I was only humbugging.” A furtive 
look came into his face, turned over his shoulder 
towards me, as he rose, took a tobacco pouch from 
the mantelshelf and filled his pipe afresh. ‘‘ Only 
a joke — a man must have his joke, you know. 
It’s dull enough here, in all conscience; somehow 
I’m clean off hunting this season.” 


ELINOR MORDAUNT 


223 


Well, there is the sound, clear enough,’^ I 
said, and at that he gave a sort of gasp, as though 
of relief. 

“ That's right, now! You hear it too. Then we 
know where we are. Sometimes I think I've ‘ got 
'em.' Only other people do hear it, though they 
pretend not to.... Hear it, feel it, smell it, rot with 
it! Why, it's everywhere — at least, everywhere I 
go. I changed my room, went and slept in the other 
wing, but it was there too, damn it all, driving 
old Brice nearly mad. ‘ I can deal with it when 
it keeps to its own place. Master Harry,' she said, 
with her mouth like a rat-trap, ‘ but if it once 
starts stavanging all over the house we're done 
for.' Its own place! That shows how people can 
get used to things. Its own place!—as though 
its own place was across my front hall, up my 
stairs and into my bedroom. Good God! I some¬ 
times wonder if I shall sleep in a dry bed again, 
or get free of the sound of that damned trickle; 
and . . . hang it all Herries, it isn't as though 
it were like the sound of ordinary water; it weeps, 
that's what it does — weeps, there's no other word 
for it." 

What do you make of it?" 

‘‘ I don't know." He leant back with his two 
elbows pushed out behind him on to the mantel¬ 
shelf, glowering at me so desperately that I was 
as sorry for him as I had once been for her. 
“People can't be things; there's animate and inani¬ 
mate nature. Oh, hang it all, running water is 


224 


THE FOUNTAIN 


animate enough, but . . . well, I learnt it all at 
school, but I can’t put it into words; you know 
what I mean — water’s not like — well, human 
beings.” 

“ You mean it’s not life.” 

No, it’s not life,” he answered very slowly; 
then in a burst: “ But what is life? Tell me that. 
It used to seem easy enough — animal, vegetable, 
mineral, that’s what they taught us — but there’s 
nothing clear or separate these days. Look here, 
I don’t believe she was ever quite true to life, 
as we count it — you know, warm blood an’ 
passion, an’ making goats of ourselves, an’ all that. 
There’s something one could never quite get hold 
of — it used to drive me mad at first.” 

Yes, I know.” There was no need for me to 
ask whom he meant, though he had not mentioned 
his wife’s name since I came to the house. 

“ Though in her own way she was chock full 
of life,” he went on sadly; a sort of life: gay 
as a bird, until I started playing the fool, breaking 
her up. For that’s what I did, you know that; 
you always knew it. You womanish sort o’ artist 
chaps know a damned sight too much of both 
sides; but you were right there. And yet — 
look here, Herries, I believe, ’pon my soul, I 
believe she loved me, in her own way. She 
wouldn’t give me all this devilish uneasiness if 
she could help it; I take my oath on that! She’s 
uncommon sorry. Sorry! Well, listen, doesn’t 
it sound for all the world as though she were 


ELINOR MORDAUNT 


225 


crying over it? Wandering, don’t you know, sort 
of wandering up and down like a lost child: driven 
— well, damn it all, driven as I’m driven.” 

“ She . . . What do you mean?” I asked, 
curious to hear what he really did make of it all. 

“ She — why, she-” He paused, his face 

flushed to a heavy crimson, and he stared at me 
hardly, as though he were putting me to the test, 
wondering how much he might dare to tell me, 
without the risk of a burst of asinine laughter. I 
think he was reassured by what he saw on my 
face, but anyhow the thing was beyond his power 
of expression and he could only murmur some¬ 
thing about its being “ all the same thing.” 

“ You mean she ”— for the life of me I couldn’t 
use the words “ your wife ”—“ or the soul of her, 
and the running water are one.” He nodded, 
and I went on: “That she was so fond of the 
fountain, so one with it?” I paused. I too was 
helpless; it would have needed one of the ancient 
Greeks, with whom such strange interminglings 
were an integral part of nature, to put the thing 
into words. But he realised what I meant and 
nodded again, with a quick glance of relief at my 
ready comprehension. 

Presently we sat down and lit another pipe, 
while we tried to talk it out in our English tongue- 
tied fashion. 

One conclusion to which he was drawn and 
from which he was by no means to be separated, 
surprised me. Sylvia was not responsible, though 



226 


THE FOUNTAIN 


she was the instrument. She was being revenged 
for the slights which had been put upon her. But 
she was not responsible; was rather the tool of 
some power infinitely old, pagan and fearful, which 
demanded a certain sacrifice in payment of all that 
she had endured; some power which had said, 
“ She is mine, of my kingdom, and you must 
pay the price, even if it is through her, the 
sufferer.’’ 

It was strange how Colquhoun had reached such 
a conclusion, following out, perhaps for the first 
time in his life, a definite train of thought. Maybe 
he had, also for the first time, known what it was 
to endure sleepless nights, those forcing hours of 
fancy. 

“ That she should suffer too? That’s nothing! 
The old God of the Bible was the same: it did 
not matter who was hurt as long as it was not 
His pride. And now ‘ They’re ’ just the same — 
‘They’ or ‘He’—I don’t know what; maybe 
you know, you’ve studied those sort of things — 
but those old Druidical beliefs, I have heard of 
them, as who hasn’t, living down here?— and all 
my people before me. Well, it seems to me that 
it’s something like that — something left over. 
There’s the blood sacrifice now. The old chaps 
’ud do nothing without it — build a house, launch 
a ship, raise an altar. And if any damned silly 
thing went wrong it was the same old cry, ‘ A 
blood offering.’ Well, that’s what They want of 
me — an’ that’s what she knows They want.” 


ELINOR MORDAUNT 227 

“ Sylvia! Sylvia, the gentlest creature on God’s 
earth.” 

He looked at me with a sudden unexpected 
shrewdness. 

And yet not quite of God’s earth — you know 
that. I remember when first we married I felt — 
well, you wouldn’t believe it, the sort I am — but 
I felt that I’d jolly well try to be different, she 
was so sweet and white, so apart from anything 
I had ever come across. And I remembered how 
my old mother used to say her prayers, thought 
no end of ’em, taught them to me when I was a 
kid. I suggested to her that we should — should ” 
— he coloured shamefacedly —“ you know what 
a man feels like when he first marries a girl of 
that sort; it doesn’t last, I grant it doesn’t last; 
but somehow, as if he was in church . . . Well, 
I half-suggested that we should pray together, 
that she should help to make me somehow decenter. 
It wasn’t that I was drunk or anything,” he added 
rather pitifully. I suppose even the worst of 
us get queer notions of that sort into our heads 
at times. I’ve known men — well, it would sur¬ 
prise you. She was ready enough, eager as a 
child, she would have done anything in the world 
for me; you know that, Herries — anything. Oh, 
but it wasn’t there, simply wasn’t there. I can’t 
explain. Sweet through and through she was, but 
certain things which used to count with my 
womenkind — it was no good, she couldn’t grasp 
them. She had been through everything, they had 


228 


THE FOUNTAIN 


drilled her in the convent, but you could tell that 
it didn^t touch her, the real her. It’s like inocu¬ 
lating a man — you can’t make it take. Beauty 
she understood, and the trees and the flowers, and 
— well you know the water, Herries, running 
water. I once heard an awfully clever chap say 
that you created your own God, or became part 
of Him. I couldn’t make head or tail of it at 
the time, but somehow I remembered and it came 
back to me. It seemed to be like that with Sylvia; 
she — she ”— he hesitated, then out of a sheer lack 
of words he blundered into the most convincing 
sentence imaginable: She worshipped, and she 
was.” 

He drank a good deal of whisky after that, and 
began to wander, embarking on a long tale of 
some dream which he could never get away from, 
a dream of a white woman, and seven white hounds 
with crimson ears, which I thought of as balder¬ 
dash, until after I had helped him up by the reek¬ 
ing stairs and into his bed; when, sitting smoking 
by the fire in my own room, the sudden memory 
came to me of how the sacred hounds of the 
Druidical gods were white with scarlet ears, and 
how the springs which had fed the fountain were 
seven in number. 

Next morning I tackled Colquhoun in real 
earnest, begging him to go away, abroad, big- 
game hunting in South Africa or heiress-hunting 
in America — anywhere. But he would not even 
hear of it; he had not been away for more than 


ELINOR MORDAUNT 


229 


a night or two since early that spring when he 
was at Monte Carlo, and somehow he seemed to 
be bitten with the idea that he could not go. 
“ It was worse when I was away last time, an’ far 
worse when I came back.” That was what he said. 

No, by God, I’ll stick it out somehow. Who 
knows, perhaps They'll get what they want, then 
there’ll be peace for the old place and the whole 
bally lot of us. Six foot by two of dry sod — 
it wouldn’t be so bad, anyhow.” 

I told him not to be an ass; I was frankly 
alarmed at his manner, and I talked it over with 
Mrs. Brice next day while I watched Colquhoun 
from the window of her room, sitting on the stone 
margin of the pool, poking holes in the dry mud 
with his stick. It was then that she told me 
something of what had happened, that last summer 
after he came back from abroad. Things had been 
queer before — well, I knew; when was it I had 
been there?— March, was it not? 

Colquhoun came home at the end of June and 
had a party of friends to stay in the house. It 
had been terribly hot in London and they were 
glad to get away; besides, they weren’t the sort 
of people who would ever stay anywhere for a 
regular season. The housekeeper stiffened visibly 
as she spoke, and I gathered from that what sort 
they were. There had been many a wild crew 
there before; still, people with a more or less 
assured position. Gradually it all came out; the 
ladies ”— the word was uttered with a sniff 


230 


THE FOUNTAIN 


which discounted it — drank whisky and water 
and smoked in their bedrooms — and not alone 
either. They ruined the best carpets by powder¬ 
ing from head to foot, to judge by the mess they 
made. Mrs. Brice opined that it was to save 
themselves the trouble of bathing, but I know 
better; the sort she described are impeccable in 
that direction, anyhow. They larked up and down 
the passages in their nightdresses, transparent 
crepe-de-chine — at least, at the very beginning. 
Later on they flew through them, wrapping their 
filmy draperies as close as though they were afraid 
of some clutching hand, for they were more scared 
than the maids; showed it too, as real ladies would 
never have done; while — cause for the crowning 
condemnation — they called the housekeeper 

Bricey ’’— she who knew her place and kept it 
— one of them actually throwing an arm round 
her waist one evening and laying her head on 
her shoulder, declaring that she was a dear old 
dug-up,’’ and made her “ sick with laughing ”— 

In front of the gentlemen and all ”— she, Brice, 
having been sent for with a needle and thread to 
mend a torn flounce. 

Colquhoun, as it seemed, favoured no one in 
particular, though the women hung round him, 
fought over him. ‘‘ You could tell how he saw 
clean through them,” remarked the housekeeper 
with pride, as though this freed her master from 
all blame. 

At first the women quarrelled, abused each other 


ELINOR MORDAUNT 


231 


like fish-wives. , Mrs. Brice gave a graphic account 
of how she saw a little one fly at a big one and 
actually stamp on her insteps with sharp Louis 
Quinze heels. 

Then suddenly they drew together. “ There’s 
something damned funny about the bloomin’ 
house!” That was what they said. 

No single one of the women would go up to 
bed alone: they would gather together in the hall, 
with the men laughing at them uproariously, and 
then fly upstairs. And there was something to 
be frightened at, too — their satin slippers were 
all blotched with damp in the morning — the 
housemaid used to put them to dry on the window¬ 
sills; the tails of their delicate gowns “ such a 
sight as never was”! They shuddered as they 
touched their fingers to the banisters. 

Then one evening they all came down again, 
pouring into the hall, and across to the dining¬ 
room where such of the men as were not playing 
cards still sat over their wine, clinging together, 
shrieking like nothing so much as a flock of 
brightly-plumaged parrots. 

They had gone up the stairs together, kept 
together, but all the same they had felt “ as chirpy 
as anything ” till they reached the top, when on 
a sudden they realised that there was Something 
— or Somebody — before them. 

It touched Rosie Vallenge. Rosie was sitting 
on a man’s knee with her arms round his neck, 
sobbing and gasping. “Good Lord!” he cried 


232 


THE FOUNTAIN 


suddenly, and made a movement as though to 
fling her aside. “ Look at the front of your frock, 
all wet, girl!^’ 

Then it had touched her. ... It was like a 
woman against the dark panelling; they were all 
agreed as to that; and yet transparent, silvery 
as water. Like water — well, only look at Rosie’s 
dress, a delicate mauve satin all splashed and 
stained. 

Mrs. Brice had run out into the hall, hearing 
the clamour even behind her baize door; the 
other men had come in from the smoking-room 
and were laughing boisterously enough at the 
women, yet with an edge on their laugh, for they 
had only just been talking it all over — the con¬ 
founded queerness of the place.” 

Harry Colquhoun had risen from the table and 
stood leaning against the mantelpiece in his 
favourite attitude, with his shoulders raised, his 
elbows stuck out behind him, resting upon it. 

His head was bent, his face grey: at least, that 
is what Mrs. Brice said. 

Suddenly he looked up and shouted at her for 
the keys of his wife’s rooms, which had not been 
used since her death, mentioning her name there 
in front of them all, which he would never have 
done had he been in his right mind. 

When Mrs. Brice pretended that she had not 
got them — she had never cared for her late 
mistress, but she did not like the idea of her rooms 
being invaded by ‘‘ that muck ”— Colquhoun 


ELINOR MORDAUNT 


233 


yelled at her with a curse: “Well, get ’em, 
woman!” and she was obliged to obey. 

When she came back with the keys, he was 
upstairs, outside Mrs. Colquhoun’s door, and his 
face had turned from white to a heavy crimson. 
The women were at the other side of the landing, 
which ran round the top of the hall like a balcony 
— clinging together, staring across at the group 
of men who were gathered about him — more than 
one propping himself against the wall, scarcely 
able to stand upright — laughing, giving advice, 
making suggestions. 

Colquhoun was the only one who seemed quite 
sober, sure of himself; though so queer and “ stony 
like ” that it might be he had passed the convivial 
stage. 

He took the key from the housekeeper with a 
steady hand and opened the door into his wife’s 
bedroom, passed through it into a little dividing 
dressing-room and so on into the boudoir. 

It had been a breathlessly hot day, there had 
been no rain for close on a month, and yet the 
damp of it, the awful dank chilliness struck to 
the bone. Some of the men, so Mrs. Brice said, 
actually turned up their collars as though not 
thinking what they were doing. 

The room had been done in pale blue and white, 
very fresh and delicate. But now the blue hang¬ 
ings at the windows were stained with damp; great 
blotches stood out against the walls; the muslin 
draperies of the dressing-table clung round it like 


234 


THE FOUNTAIN 


the clothes round a drowned man. In the boudoir 
someone pulled a book from the shelves and found 
the sides of it grey with mould. 

“ For the Lord’s sake why don’t you open the 
window and let in a little fresh air!” cried one 
man; then, pulling aside the curtain, found that 
the windows were all pushed up as far as they 
would go, while the breath of the outer air was 
hot and dry as an oven. 

Some of the women had crept in; one put her 
hand on the bed and shuddered: there was a damp 
patch on the pillow, the dark blue carpet was all 
paddled over with it. 

Suddenly she gave a shriek, crying out, “ A 
toad! Toad — ugh, the nasty thing!” and gather¬ 
ing together, they fled. 

But it was not a toad, only a dead leaf lying 
on the carpet which Mrs. Brice herself had brushed 
over, that very morning, locking the door after 
her when she had finished; a dark, water-rotted 
leaf, almost a skeleton, such as one might find 
at the bottom of a well. 

The house-party broke up after that. One or 
two of the men lingered, but not for long; they 
declared that the place affected their livers. 

Now and then a chance visitor turned up, but 
never stayed for long. The most persistent was 
what Mrs. Brice called a poor frayed piece ” 
who seemed to have nowhere else to go. One of 
the men had left her behind, as though forgotten, 
and Colquhoun took no notice of her; perhaps 


ELINOR MORDAUNT 


235 


that was why the housekeeper, in whose com¬ 
fortable room she took occasional refuge, declared 
her to have been “ more sinned against than sin¬ 
ning.’^ But even she left at last, saying that she 
would rather be in the morgue. 

Several times Colquhoun went away, but he 
always came back sooner than he was expected, 
dropping in upon me all of a sudden,” as Mrs. 
Brice put it, with a look in his eyes — God 
forgive me for comparing any Christian, above 
all my own master, to a heathen beast with no 
soul — but for all the world the same as that there 
dog of his.” 

I knew that look in Wasp’s eyes, puzzled, 
anxious, in a way licentious; and I remembered 
now that Lady Hardy had spoken of Colquhoun 
— though whether she quoted consciously I can¬ 
not tell — as “ dog-eyed, wine-laden.” 

Poor devil! I was sorry enough for him now 
in all conscience, his whole life turned upside down 
by some power which was past his understanding. 
Indeed, he was like a dog in more ways than one, 
for he had all a dog’s hatred of what was beyond 
his comprehension, with none of that prying, tip¬ 
toeing delight and curiosity regarding the super¬ 
natural which possesses the feline race and all that 
are kindred with it. 

After a great deal of persuasion I got him to 
go abroad with me, and we started off to the 
Austrian Tyrol; but we had not been there a 
week when I awoke one morning to find that he 


236 


THE FOUNTAIN 


was gone, leaving an explanatory note — in the 
caligraphy and spelling of a boy of twelve — to 
say that he felt he had to go, or rather, “ must be 
there.’^ 

I followed him as quickly as possible, very 
much frightened, for he still held to that belief 
as to what was expected of him. It is strange 
how the pure Welsh strain of his mother^s race, 
through whom he had inherited Cattraeth, came 
out in this, as it already had done in his mobile 
mouth and straight, densely-black hair. Some old 
nurse might have told him stories of atonement by 
blood; but those white hounds with the red ears, 
surely they hunted him down through the dreams 
of untold ancestors. 

It was Mrs. Brice who opened the door to me; 
and I do not believe that I was ever so welcome 
a sight to any woman^s eyes, for her flat, rubber¬ 
like face awoke to a sort of humanity as she 
realised who it was. 

“ He’s come,” she said. 

What does he say?” 

‘‘ He says nothing — to me, at any rate,” she 
answered. Then, to my surprise, she led me 
through the hall and down the passage to the ser¬ 
vants’ quarters without so much as a word of 
apology or explanation. 

Upon the window-seat of her own sanctum, the 
only one of the lower rooms from which there was 
a clear view of the fountain pool, sat Wasp staring 
out, shivering. She had gone to skin and bone, 


ELINOR MORDAUNT 


237 


her coat was dry and colourless. When I spoke 
to her she glanced round hastily and then back 
again out of the window, making no movement 
to come to me. 

“ There she sits,’’ remarked the housekeeper. 

It seems that she won’t go out with Master 
Harry.” The old name slipped out in her pertur¬ 
bation; she spoke with that sort of flat blankness 
which comes to us when we feel there is nothing 
more to be done. She seems to know where he 
is going, poor bitch!” 

Where?” I asked; and she answered dully 
enough that I could see for myself; as I could by 
leaning over the dog — who growled as though in 
fear that I should oust her from her vigil — for 
there was Colquhoun on the edge of the pool, 
digging holes in the mud. The whole aspect of 
him, the attitude, had something eternal about 
it to my mind; I felt I must have seen him thus 
thousands of times, could remember no other 
position, with no more reasonable occupation. 

He slept on the floor last night,” said Mrs. 
Brice; then added bitterly, An’ no wonder — no 
wonder, I say. For his bed was wringing, though 
I’ve moved him to the far wing — and now every¬ 
thing is spoilt there, for it’s everywhere, every¬ 
where where he goes. Well, it’s past me!” She 
drew her hand over her mouth with an odd grimace 
as though her muscles had grown stiff with keeping 
her teeth clenched over the thing. I say to 
myself, ‘ God only knows,’ but does He — does 


238 


THE FOUNTAIN 


He? An’ counting Him out, there’s no one.” 

I went into the garden and managed to coax 
Colquhoun indoors. It was a warm spring day, 
but we had an enormous fire and sat over it, both 
before dinner and then again later on, Colquhoun 
leaning forward with his forearms along his knees, 
his hands hanging, while little Wasp sat and stared 
up at him. 

I noticed that he had lost that habit of sudden 
turning and staring; but it was not because he 
was more at ease, rather that everything had come 
to such a pass it was beyond troubling about. 
Only once did I see him roused. 

Something came into the room. I do not know 
what it was; I could see nothing, but I could 
feel it. Colquhoun did not look round. He knew 
it was there, I saw that by the twitch of his mouth; 
but his despair seemed to have bred in him a sort 
of sullen indifference which said, “ Oh, let it 
come!” He was like Sir Roland at his Dark 
Tower. 

The something, whatever it might have been, 
passed behind me where I sat in a low chair to 
the right of the fire, I knew that by the breath of 
moist air, so different from the mustiness which 
hung about the house — sweet as spring flowers 
— and moved on until it stood in front of 
Colquhoun. 

Oh, it was so distinct, the feeling of it — a 
slender column of water: so distinct that I actually 
knew when it stooped. And it was then that 


ELINOR MORDAUNT 


239 


Wasp leapt up with a howl of terror and ran to 
the farthest corner of the room, where she sat 
with her muzzle pressed against the wall, 
shivering. 

I could hear my host rap out a fierce oath at 
that, but I could hear something else, as he got 
up to follow his dog — a soft cry, bitter and heart¬ 
broken, such a cry as might come from one who, 
stopping to caress, is cruelly repulsed, driven back 
for some reason it cannot comprehend. 

“ Look here, Herries,’’ Colquhoun called to me, 
his white face flushed. Then, Damn it all! They 
might as well leave my bitch alone!’’ he burst out, 
and lifting the trembling creature in his arms, 
pointed out a dark patch upon the dry, starting 
hair as though a wet hand had been laid there. 

I can never forget the atmosphere of the room 
at that moment. It seemed as though it must 
become articulate, so over-charged was it with 
misery and fear and pain, and the desperate striv¬ 
ing to understand and explain of at least one of 
the Four of us — counting Wasp as one. 

Then that other one slid away, with a sort of 
sob, as I thought; passed across the hall and up 
the stairs, the sound of its weeping mingling with 
the sound of the running water. 

“ It’s everywhere,” said Colquhoun. “ Look 
here, Herries, it lies on the pillow beside me at 
night, ’pon my oath it does! It’s already in the 
chair that I go to sit in; it mists over the glass 
so that I can scarcely see to shave. An’ the 


240 


THE FOUNTAIN 


damnable part of it is that it^s being driven just 
as I’m driven. Cruel! Oh, rank cruelty, I call 
it. It’s got to be done with, given a chance to 
rest. It’s no good haggling over the price — I 
know that, have known it all along. I cursed when 
my dog was touched; somehow a fellow can stand 
things for himself that he can’t stand for his dog 
— poor Wasp, poor little bitch! But the reason 
for it was that she, an’ I were both scared — 
dead scared. An’ you too, though you loved her 
. . . Oh, yes, I know that, always knew it: it 
amused me — once. But scared! Of her, of her! 
That’s the desperate part of it, Herries. . . . Con¬ 
foundedly lonely. . . . Oh, yes, I know, the 
same way that I’m lonely; an’ driven the way 
I’m driven: an’ cornin’ in here to us to the light 
and the warmth, and us scared of her! Poor 
little thing, poor kid, so soft and sweet and white. 

She had on a little grey motor-bonnet the 
first day we came home here, with blue ribbons 
under her dinky round chin; an’ now I’m dead 
scared of her — or what’s at the back of her 
drivin’ her on. Some horrible thing — tremend¬ 
ous somehow — I don’t know how to put it — but 
it seems something like what you call the forces 
of nature, not our God, or Christ, but that old 

bloody thing-” 

“ The pagan belief ...” 

That’s it, the pagan belief! It strikes me 
that it made something. Can a lot of people 
believing in a thing make, create it?— O God, 



ELINOR MORDAUNT 


241 


I don’t know, I can’t get it into words. But if 
they did make it — that way — they mightn’t be 
able to drop it when they wanted to — by simply 
ceasing to believe. Damn it all — but it seems 
like this: that a chap might make a god of clay 
and break it in a paddy, and there’d still be some¬ 
thing left — something he used to count on.” 

He sat down in his chair cuddling the little dog 
against his face, looking at me with eyes which 
seemed somewhat cleared of their desperation, as 
though by some definite decision. Mrs. Brice 
brought in the tray with decanter and glasses, but 
he did not touch anything, and saw me to my 
room himself that night, playing the host, careful 
that I had everything I needed. 

I think I knew what was going to happen: cer¬ 
tainly I was not surprised when the housekeeper 
came to my room soon after dawn next day to 
say that she had been awakened by the sound 
of a shot, and running to her master’s room, found 
him dead, lying upon the floor. I had done all 
that I felt I had any right to do, and I could not 
grieve. 

I think Mrs. Brice felt that too. 

“ Anyhow, his troubles are over now,” she said, 
and I hope and believe that she was right. 

I still go to the house. It is there, indeed, that 
I have written the greater part of these memories 
— and speculations. 

At the moment I have just returned from a 
visit to the housekeeper’s room, where she spends 


242 


THE FOUNTAIN 


most of her time — for she is growing old now — 
in a great winged chair by the window. 

On this particular morning it was wide open, for 
it is midsummer, and old Wasp, very feeble and 
almost blind, was lying asleep on the cushioned 
seat. The roses have grown tall, and flourished 
exceedingly, so that it was only above their long 
flower-laden sprays that I caught a glimpse of the 
fountain's sparkling plume, which we found sprung 
to life again on the morning of poor Harry Col- 
quhoun’s death. 

A four of schoolboys, two of thern Colquhoun’s 
nephews — for the place went to his sister at his 
death — were playing tennis on the lawn, with a 
vast amount of noise and very little science. Out 
from the door of the housekeeper's room I could 
look straight along the passage, as down the dark 
barrel of a gun — for the baize door is permanently 
fastened back in these days — right into the hall. 

A light silk curtain billowed out in the draught 
from some unseen window, and a woman in a 
white gown pranced across the upright panel of 
light, a four-year-old hanging on to her sash 
ribbons with shouts of “ Gee-up, there^^; while 
from a distant piano came a whole-souled clash 
of notes, and a girPs clear voice singing “ The 
Low-backed Car.^^ 

I suppose there^s no damp here now,’^ I ven¬ 
tured, half-turned to leave the room. For con¬ 
versation is difficult with Mrs. Brice these days. 
I have seen her soul stripped bare, unashamed and 


ELINOR MORDAUNT 


243 


very much afraid, and she can never forget that 
against me. 

Sitting there immovable in her great chair, with 
its curving back giving her something of the air 
of a tortoise turned up sideways encircled by its 
shell — she treated me to a cold stare out of her 
dull grey eyes. 

“Damp!” she said. “There’s no damp here, 
never has been. It’s the driest house I was ever 
in; that’s what I always have said, always will 
say, no matter what folks, that have got the habit 
of novel-writing, demean themselves by making 
out.” 


NOT ON THE PASSENGER-LIST 
By Barry Pain 

I HAD not slept. It may have been the noise 
which prevented me. The entire ship groaned, 
creaked, screamed and sobbed. In the state¬ 
rooms near mine the flooring was being torn up, 
and somebody was busy with a very blunt saw 
just over my head — at least it sounded like that. 
The motion, too, was not favourable for sleep. 
There was nothing but strong personal magnetism 
to keep me in my bunk. If I had relaxed it for 
a moment, I should have fallen out. 

Then the big trunk under my berth began to 
be busy, and I switched on the light to look at it. 
In a slow and portly way it began to lollop across 
the floor towards the door. It was trying to get 
out of the ^ship, and I never blamed it. But 
before it could reach the door, a suit-case dashed 
out from under the couch and kicked it in the 
stomach. I switched off the light again, and let 
them fight it out in the dark. 

I recalled that an elderly pessimist in the 
smoking-room the night before had expressed his 
belief that we were overloaded and that if the ship 
met any heavy weather she^d break'in two for sure. 
And then I was playing chess with a fat negress 
who said she was only black when she was playing 
244 


BARRY PAIN 


245 


the black pieces; but in the middle of it somebody 
knocked and said that my bath was ready. 

The last part turned out to be true. My bath 
was even more than ready, it was impatient; as 
I entered the bathroom the water jumped out to 
meet me and did so. Then, when the bath and I 
had finished with each other, my steward came 
slanting down the passage, at an angle of thirty 
degrees to the floor, without spilling my morning 
tea, and said that the weather was improving. 

There were very few early risers at breakfast 
that morning, but I was not the first. Mrs. Der- 
rison was coming out as I entered the saloon. I 
thought she looked ill, but it was not particularly 
surprising. We said good morning, and 'then she 
hesitated for a moment. 

“ I want to speak to you,” she said. Do you 
mind? Not now. Come up on deck when youVe 
finished breakfast.” 

She was not an experienced traveller, and had 
already consulted me about various small matters. 
I supposed she wanted to-know what was the right 
tip for a stewardess or something of that kind. 
Accordingly after breakfast I went up, and found 
her wrapped in furs — very expensive furs — in 
her deck-chair. I could see now that she was not 
in the least sea-sick, but she said she had not slept 
all night. I moved her chair into a better position, 
and chatted as I wrapped the rug round her. I 
confessed that with the exception of an hour’s 
nightmare about a fat negtess I also had not slept. 


246 NOT ON THE PASSENGER-LIST 


As a rule, she would have smiled at this, for she 
smiled easily and readily. But now she stared out 
over the sea as if she had heard the words without 
understanding them. She was a woman of thirty- 
four or thirty-five, I should think, and had what is 
generally called an interesting face. You noticed 
her eyes particularly. 

Well,’’ I said, “ the wind’s dropping, and we 
shall all sleep better tonight. Look, there’s the 
sun coming out at last. And now, what’s the 
trouble? What can I do for you?” 

I don’t think that even you can help,” she 
said drearily, “ though you’ve done lots of kind 
things for me. Still, I’ve got to tell somebody. I 
simply can’t stand it alone. Oh, if I were only 
the captain of this ship! ” 

I don’t think you’d like it! Why, what 
would you do?” 

Turn round and go back to New York.” 

It couldn’t be done. The ship doesn’t carry 
enough coal. And we shall be at Liverpool the 
morning after next. But why? What’s the 
matter?” 

She held out one hand in the sunlight. It looked 
very small and transparent. It shook. 

“ The matter is that I’m frightened. I’m simply 
frightened out of my life.” 

I looked hard at her. There was no doubt about 
it. She was a badly frightened woman. I resisted 
an impulse to pat her on the shoulder. 

“ But really, Mrs. Derrison, if you’ll forgive me 


BARRY PAIN 


247 


for saying so, this is absolute nonsense. The 
boat’s slower than she ought to be, and I’ll admit 
that she rolls pretty badly, but she’s as safe as a 
church all the same.” 

“ Yes, I know. In any case, that is not the kind 
of thing that would frighten me. This is some¬ 
thing quite different. And when I have told you 
it, you will probably think that I am insane.” 

No,” I said, I shall not think that.” 

“ Very well. I told you that I was a widow. 
I wear no mourning, and I did not tell you that 
Alec, my husband, died only three months ago. 
Nor did I tell you, which is also the truth, that 
I am going to England in order to marry another 
man.” 

I understand all that. Go on.” 

“ Alec died three months ago. But he is on this 
boat. I saw him last night. I think he has come 
for me.” 

She made that amazing statement quietly and 
without excitement. But you cannot tell a ghost 
story convincingly to a man who is sitting in the 
sun at Saif past nine in the morning. I neither 
doubted her sincerity nor her sanity. I merely 
wondered how the illusion had been produced. 

Well,” I said, “ you know that’s quite impos¬ 
sible, don’t you?” 

Yesterday, I should have said so.” 

So you will tomorrow. Tell me how it hap¬ 
pened, and I will tell you the explanation.” 

I went to my room at eleven last night. The 


248 NOT ON THE PASSENGER-LIST 

door was a little way open — fixed by that hook 
arrangement — the way I generally leave it. I 
switched on the light and went in. He was sitting 
on the berth with his legs dangling, his profile 
towards me. The light shone on the bald place on 
his head. He wore blue pyjamas and red slip¬ 
pers — the kind that he always wore. The pocket 
of the coat was weighed down, and I remembered 
what he had told me — that when he was travel¬ 
ling he put his watch, money, and keys there at 
night. He turned his head towards me. It came 
round very slowly, as if with an effort. That was 
strange, because so far I had been startled and 
surprised but not frightened. When the head 
turned round, I became really frightened. You 
see, it was Alec — and yet it was not.’^ 

“ I don’t think I understand. How do you 
mean?” 

Well, it was like him — a roundish face, clean¬ 
shaven, heavily lined — he was fifteen years older 
than I was — with his very heavy eyebrows and 
his ridiculously small mouth. His mouth was 
really abnormal. But the whole thing looked as 
if it had been modelled out of wax and painted. 
And, then, when a head turns towards you, you 
expect the eyes to look at you. These did not. 
They remained with the lids half down — very 
much as I remembered him after the doctors had 
gone. Oh, I was frightened! I fumbled with one 
hand behind me, trying to find the bell-push. 
And yet I could not help speaking out loud. I 


BARRY PAIN 


249 


said: ^ What does this mean, Alec?’ Just then I 
got my finger on the bell-push. He knew I had 
rung — I could see that. His lips kept opening 
and shutting as if he were trying hard to speak. 
When the voice came at last, it was only a whisper. 
He said: want you!’ Then the stewardess 

tapped at the door, and I did not see him any 
more.” 

Did you tell the stewardess?” 

“ Oh, no! I did not mean to tell anybody then. 
I pretended to be nervous about the ship rolling 
too much, and managed to keep her with me for a 
long time. She offered to fetch the doctor for me, 
so that I could ask him for a sleeping-draught, but 
I wouldn’t have that.” 

Why not?” 

“I was afraid to go to sleep. I wanted to be 
ready in case — in case it happened again. You 
see, I knew why it was.” 

I don’t think you did, Mrs. Derrison. But I 
will tell you why it was, if you like. The explana¬ 
tion is very simple and also very prosaic.” 

What is it?” 

“ The cause of the illusion was merely sea¬ 
sickness.” 

“ But I’ve not felt ill at all.” 

Very likely not. If you had been ill in the 
ordinary way, the way in which it has taken a good 
many of our friends, you would never have had the 
illusion. Brain and stomach act and react on one 
another. The motion of the boat, too, is partic- 


250 NOT ON THE PASSENGER-LIST 


ularly trying to the optic nerves. In some cases, 
not very common perhaps, but quite well known 
and recognised — it is the brain and not the other 
organ which is temporarily affected.” 

I do not know anything about it really, and had 
merely invented the sea-sickness theory on the 
spur of the moment. It was necessary to think of 
something plausible and very commonplace. Mrs. 
Derrison was suffering a good deal, and I had to 
stop it. 

If I could only think that,” she said, what 
a comfort it would be!” 

“ Whether you believe it or not, iVs the truth,” 
I said. “ IVe known a similar case. It won’t hap¬ 
pen to you again, because the weather’s getting 
better, and so you won’t be ill.” 

She wanted to know all about the “ similar 
case,” and I made up a convincing little story 
about it. Gradually, she began to be reassured. 

“ I wish I had known about it before,” she said. 

All last night I sat in my room, with the light 
turned on, getting more and more frightened. I 
don’t think there’s anything hurts one so much 
as fear. I can understand people being driven 
mad by it. You see, I had a special reason to be 
afraid, because Alec was jealous, very jealous. He 
had even, I suppose, some grounds for jealousy.” 

She began to tell me her story. She had mar¬ 
ried Alec Derrison nine years before. She liked 
him at that time, but she did not love him, and 
she told him so. He said that it did not matter, 


BARRY PAIN 


251 


and that in time she would come to love him. I 
dare say a good many marriages that begin in that 
way turn out happily, but this marriage was a 
mistake. 

He took her to his house in New York, and there 
they lived for a year without actual disaster. He 
was very kind to her, and she was touched by his 
kindness. She had been quite poor, and she now 
had plenty of money to spend, and liked it. But 
it became clear to her in that year not only that 
she did not love her husband, but that she never 
would love him. And she was, I could believe, a 
rather romantic and temperamental kind of woman 
by whom many men were greatly attracted. Alec 
Derrison began to be very jealous — at that time 
quite absurdly and without reason. 

At the end of the year Derrison took her to 
Europe for a holiday. And there, in England, in 
her father’s country rectory, she met the man 
whom she ought to have married — an artist of 
the same age as herself. The two fell desperately 
in love with one another. The man wanted to take 
her away with him and ultimately to marry her. 
She refused. 

There is a curious mixture of conscience and 
temperament which is sometimes mistaken for 
cowardice, and is often accompanied by extra¬ 
ordinary courage. She went to her husband and, 
so to speak, put her cards down on the table. “ I 
love another man,” she said. I love him in the 
way in which I wished to love you but cannot. 


252 NOT ON THE PASSENGER-LIST 


I did not want this and I did not look for it, 
but it has happened to me. I am sorry it has 
happened, but I do not ask you to forgive me, 
for you have nothing to forgive. I want to know 
what you mean to do.’^ 

His answer was to take her straight back to New 
York. There for the eight years before he died 
he treated her with kindness and gave her every 
luxury, but all the time he had her watched. Traps 
were laid for her, but in vain. He had for business 
reasons to go to England every year, but he never 
took her with him. When he was away, two of 
his sisters came to the house and watched for him. 

And yet, because in some things a woman is 
cleverer than a man, and also because the femi¬ 
nine conscience always has its limitations, during 
the whole of those eight years she corresponded 
regularly with the other man without being found 
out. They never met, but she had his letters. 
And now she was going back to marry him. 

It was, perhaps, a little curious that she should 
tell all this to a man whom she had known only 
for a few days. But intimacies grow quickly on 
board ship, and besides she wanted to explain her 
terror. 

You see how it was,’’ she said. “ If a dead 
man could come back again, then certainly he 
would come back. And when one begins to be 
frightened the fear grows and grows. One thinks 
of things. For instance, he crossed more than once 
in this very boat — I thought of that.” 


BARRY PAIN 


253 


Well, Mrs. Derrison,’^ I said, the dead can¬ 
not and do not come back. But a disordered 
interior does sometimes produce an optical illusion. 
That’s all there is to it. However, if you like. I’ll 
go to the purser and get your room changed for 
another; I can manage that all right.” 

It was not a very wise suggestion, and she 
refused it. She said that it would be like admit¬ 
ting that there was something in it beyond sea¬ 
sickness. 

“ Good!” I said. I think you’re quite right. 
I thought it might ease your mind not to see again 
the room where you were frightened, but it is 
much better to be firm about it. In fact, you had 
better take a cup of soup and then go back to your 
room now, and get an hour’s sleep before lunch.” 

“ I wonder if I could.” 

Of course you can. You’re getting your 
colour back, and there’s much less motion on 
the boat. You won’t have another attack. You’ve 
had sc sort of suppressed form of sea-sickness, 
that’s all. And I can quite understand that it 
scared you at the time, when you didn’t know; 
but there’s no reason why it should scare you now 
when you do know.” 

She took my advice. A woman will generally 
take advice from any man except her husband — 
because he’s the only man she really knows. She 
was disproportionately grateful. Gratitude is rare 
but, when found, it is in very large streaks. She 
had also decided to believe that I knew everything, 


254 NOT ON THE PASSENGER-LIST 


could do everything, and had other admirable 
qualities. When a woman decides to believe, facts 
do not hamper her. 

She was much better at lunch and afterwards. 
Next day she was apparently normal, and was 
taking part in the usual deck-games. I began to 
think that my sea-sickness theory might have been 
a lucky shot. I consulted the ship’s doctor about 
it, without giving him names or details, but he 
was very non-committal. He was a general prac¬ 
titioner, of course, and I was taking him into the 
specialist regions. Besides, naturally enough, a 
doctor does not care to talk his own shop with a 
layman. He gave me an impression that any con¬ 
clusions to which I came would necessarily be 
wrong. But it did not worry me much. I did not 
see a great deal of Mrs. Derrison, but it was quite 
obvious that she had recovered her normal health 
and spirits. I believed that the trouble was over. 

But it was not. 

On the night before we arrived, after the 
smoking-room had been closed, old Bartlett asked 
me to come to his rooms for a chat and a whisky- 
and-soda. The old man slept badly, and was in¬ 
clined to a late sitting. We discussed various 
subjects, and amongst them memory for faces. 

IVe got that memory,” he said. “ Names 
bother me, but not faces. For instance, I remem¬ 
ber the faces of the seventy or eighty in the first- 
class here.” 

I thought we were more than that.” 


BARRY PAIN 


255 


“ No. People don’t cross the Atlantic for fun 
in February. It’s a pretty light list. It’s a funny 
thing, too — we’ve got one man on board who’s 
never showed up at all. I saw him for the first 
time this morning — to be accurate, yesterday 
morning — coming from the bath, and I’ve not 
seen him since. He must have been hiding in 
his state-room all the time.” 

“ Ill, probably.” 

No, not ill. I asked the doctor. I suppose 
he don’t enjoy the society of his fellow-men for 
some reason or other.” 

Well, now,” I said, “ let’s test your memory. 
What was he like?” 

“ You’ve given me an easy one as it happens, 
for he was rather a curious chap to look at, and 
easy to remember in consequence. A man in the 
fifties, I should say; medium height; wore blue 
pyjamas with a gold watch-chain trickling out of 
the pocket, and those red slippers that you buy 
in Cairo. But his face was what I noticed par¬ 
ticularly. He’s got a one-inch mouth — smallest 
mouth I ever saw on a man. But the whole look 
on his face was queer, just as if it had been painted 
and then varnished. 

He was bald, round-faced, wrinkled, and 
dean-shaven. He walked very slowly, and he 
looked as if he were worried out of his life. 
There’s the portrait, and you can check it when 
we get off the boat — you’re bound to see him 
then.” 


256 NOT ON THE PASSENGER-LIST 


“ Yes, youVe a good memory. If I had just 
passed a man in a passage, I shouldn’t have re¬ 
membered a thing about him ten minutes after¬ 
wards. By the way, have you spoken about the 
hermit passenger to anybody else?” 

“ No. Oh, yes, I did mention it to some of the 
ladies after dinner! Why?” 

“ I wondered if anybody besides yourself had 
seen him.” 

“ Well, they didn’t say they had. Bless you, 
I’ve known men like that. It’s a sort of sulki¬ 
ness. They’d sooner be alone.” 

A few minutes later I said good night and left 
him. It was between one and two in the morning. 
His story had made a strong impression upon me. 
My theory of sea-sickness had to go, and I was 
scared. Quite frankly, I was afraid of meeting 
something in blue pyjamas. But I was more 
afraid about Mrs. Derrison. There were very few 
ladies on board, and it was almost certain she was 
in the group to whom Bartlett had told his story. 
If that were so, anything might have happened. I 
decided to go past her state-room, listening as I did 
so. But before I reached her room the door opened, 
and she swung out in her nightdress. She had got 
her mouth open and one hand at her throat. With 
the other hand she clutched the handle of the door, 
as if she were trying to hold it shut against some¬ 
body. I hurried towards her, and she turned and 
saw me. In an instant she was in my arms, cling¬ 
ing to me in sheer mad, helpless terror. 


BARRY PAIN 


257 


She was hysterical, of course, but fortunately 
she did not make much noise. She kept saying: 

IVe got to go back to him — into the sea!’^ It 
seemed a long time before I could get her calm 
enough to listen to me. 

You’ve had a bad dream, and it has frightened 
you, poor child.” 

‘‘No, no. Not a dream!” 

“ It didn’t seem like one to you, but that’s what 
it was. You’re all right now. I’m going to take 
care of you.” 

“ Don’t let go of me for a moment. He wants 
me. He’s in there.” 

“ Oh, no! I’ll show you that he’s not there.” 

I opened the door. Within all was darkness. 
I still kept one arm round her, or she would have 
fallen. 

“ I left the light on,” she whispered. 

“Yes,” I said, “ but your sleeve caught the 
switch as you came out. I saw it.” It was a lie, 
of course, but one had to lie. 

I switched the light on again. The room was 
empty. There were the tumbled bedclothes on the 
berth, and a pillow had fallen to the floor. On the 
table some toilet things gleamed brightly. There 
was a pile of feminine garments on the couch. I 
drew her in and closed the door. 

“ I’ll put you back into bed again,” I said, 
“ if you don’t mind.” 

“ If you’ll promise not to go.” 

“ Oh, I won’t go!” 


258 NOT ON THE PASSENGER-LIST 


I picked her up and laid her on the berth, and 
drew the clothes over her. I put the pillow back 
under her head. With both her hands she clutched 
one of mine. 

“ Now, then,’’ I said, do you happen to have 
any brandy here?” 

‘‘ In a flask in my dressing-bag. It’s been 
there for years. I don’t know if it’s any good 
still.” 

She seemed reluctant to let go my hand, and 
clutched it again eagerly when I brought the 
brandy. She was quite docile, and drank as I 
told her. I have not put down half of what she 
said. She was muttering the whole time. The 
phrase “ into the sea ” occurred frequently. All 
ordinary notions of the relationship of a man and 
a woman had vanished. I was simply a big 
brother who was looking after her. That was felt 
by both of us. We called each other “ dear ” that 
night frequently, but there was not a trace of 
sex-sentimentality between us. 

Gradually she became more quiet, and I was no 
longer afraid that she would faint. Still holding 
my hand, she said: 

Shall I tell you what it was?” 

“ Yes, dear, if you like. But you needn’t. It 
was only a dream, you know.” 

“ I don’t think it was a dream. I went to sleep, 
which I had never expected to do after the thing 
that Mr. Bartlett told us. I couldn’t have done 
it, only I argued that you must be right and the 


BARRY PAIN 


259 


rest must be just a coincidence. Then I was 
awakened by the sound of somebody breathing 
close by my ear. It got further away, and I 
switched on the light quickly. He was standing 
just there — exactly as I described him to you — 
and he had picked up a pair of nail-scissors. He 
was opening and shutting them. Then he put 
them down open, and shook his head. (Look, 
they’re open now, and I always close them.) 
And suddenly he lurched over, almost falling, and 
clutched the wooden edge of the berth. His 
red hands — they were terribly red, far redder 
than they used to be — came on to the wood with 
a slap. ^ Go into the sea, Sheila,’ he whispered. 
‘ I’m waiting. I want you.’ And after that I 
don’t know what happened, but suddenly I was 
hanging on to you, dear. How long was it ago? 
Was it an hour? It doesn’t matter. I’m safe while 
you’re here.” 

I released her hands gently. Suddenly the 
paroxysm of terror returned. 

You’re not going?” she cried, aghast. 

Of course not.” I sat down on the couch 
opposite her. “ But what makes you think you’re 
safe while I’m here?” 

You’re stronger than he is,” she said. 

She said it as if it were a self-evident fact which 
did not admit of argument. Certainly, though 
no doubt unreasonably, it gave me confidence. I 
felt somehow that he and I were fighting for the 
woman’s life and soul, and I had got him down. 


260 NOT ON THE PASSENGER-LIST 


I knew that in some mysterious way I was the 
stronger. 

Well,” I said, “ the dream that one is awake 
is a fairly common dream. But what was the 
thing that Bartlett told you?” 

He saw him — in blue pyjamas and red slip¬ 
pers. He mentioned the mouth, too.” 

“ I^m glad you told me that,” I said, and began a 
few useful inventions. The man that Bartlett 
saw was Curwen. WeVe just been talking about 
it.” 

Who’s Curwen?” 

Not a bad chap — an electrical engineer, I 
believe. As soon as Bartlett mentioned the mole 
on the cheek and the little black moustache I 
spotted that it was Curwen.” 

“ But he said he had never seen him before.” 

Nor had he. Curwen’s a bad sailor and has 
kept to his state-room — in fact, that was his first 
public appearance. But I saw Curwen when he 
came on board and had a talk with him. As soon 
as Bartlett mentioned the mole, I knew who it 
was.” 

Then the colour of the slippers and-” 

They were merely a coincidence, and a mighty 
unlucky one for you.” 

“I see,” she said. Her muscles relaxed. She 
gave a little sigh of relief and sank back on the 
pillow. ,I was glad that I had invented Curwen 
and the mole. 

I changed the subject now, and began to talk 



BARRY PAIN 


261 


about Liverpool — not so many miles away now. 
I asked her if she had changed her American 
money yet. I spoke about the customs, and con¬ 
fessed to some successful smuggling that I had 
once done. In fact, I talked about anything that 
might take her mind away from her panic. Then 
I said: 

“ If you will give me about ten seconds start 
now, so that I can get back to my own room, you 
might ring for your stewardess to come and take 
care of you. It will mean an extra tip for her, and 
she won’t mind.” 

“ Yes,” she said, “ I ought not to keep you any 
longer. Indeed, it is very kind of you to have 
helped me and to have stayed so long. I’ll never 
forget it. But even now I daren’t be alone for a 
moment. Will you wait until she’s actually here?” 

I was not ready for that. 

Well,” I said hesitatingly. 

“ Of course,” she said. “ I hadn’t thought of 
it. I can’t keep you. You’ve had no sleep at all. 

And yet if you go, he’ll- Oh, what am I to 

do? What am I to do?” 

I was afraid she would begin to cry. 

“ That’s all right,” I said. I can stay for 
another hour or two easily enough.” 

She was full of gratitude. She told me to throw 
the things off the end of the couch so that I could 
lie at full length. I dozed for a while, but I do not 
think she slept at all. She was wide awake when I 
opened my eyes. I talked to her for a little, and 



262 NOT ON THE PASSENGER-LIST 


found her much reassured and calmed. People 
were beginning to move about. It was necessary 
for me to go immediately if I was not to be seen. 

She agreed at once. When I shook hands with 
her, and told her to try for an hour^s sleep, she 
kissed my hand fervently in a childish sort of 
way. Frightened people behave rather like 
children. 

I was not seen as I came from her room. The 
luck was with me. It is just possible that on the 
other side of the ship a steward saw me enter my 
own room in evening clothes at a little after five. 
If he did, it did not matter. 

4c j|c He 3|e >|c 

I have had the most grateful and kindly letters 
from her and from her new husband — the cheery 
and handsome man who met her at Liverpool. In 
her letter she speaks of her “ awful nightmare, that 
even now seems sometimes as if it must have been 
real.^’ She has sent me a cigarette-case that I am 
afraid I cannot use publicly. A gold cigarette-case 
with a diamond push-button would give a wrong 
impression of my income, and the inscription inside 
might easily be misunderstood. But I like to 
have it. 

Thanks to my innocent mendacity, she has a 
theory which covers the whole ground. But I 
myself have no theory at all. I know this — that 
I might travel to New York by that same boat 


BARRY PAIN 


263 


tomorrow, and that I am waiting three days for 
another. 

I have suppressed the name of the boat, and I 
think I have said nothing by which she could be 
identified. I do not want to spoil business. Be¬ 
sides, it may be funk and superstition that con¬ 
vinces me that on every trip she carries a passenger 
whose name is not on the list. But, for all that, 
I am quite convinced. 


THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 


By Edgar Allan Poe 

Son coeur est un luth suspendu; 

Sitot qu’on le touche il resonne. 

De Beranger. 

During the whole of a dull, dark, and sound¬ 
less day in the autumn of the year, when the 
clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had 
been passing alone, on horseback, through a singu¬ 
larly dreary tract of country; and at length found 
myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, 
within view of the melancholy House of Usher. 
I know not how it was — but, with the first glimpse 
of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom per¬ 
vaded my spirit. I say insufferable; for the feeling 
was unrelieved by any of that half-pleasurable, 
because poetic, sentiment, with which the mind 
usually receives even the sternest natural images 
of the desolate or terrible. I looked upon the 
scene before me — upon the mere house, and the 
simple landscape features of the domain — upon 
the bleak walls — upon the vacant eye-like win¬ 
dows — upon a few rank sedges — and upon a few 
white trunks of decayed trees — with an utter 
depression of soul which I can compare with no 
earthly sensation more properly than to the after- 
264 


EDGAR ALLAN POE 


265 


dream of the reveller upon opium — the bitter 
lapse into everyday life — the hideous dropping 
off of the veil. There was an iciness, a sinking, a 
sickening of the heart — an unredeemed dreari¬ 
ness of thought which no goading of the imagina¬ 
tion could torture into aught of the sublime. What 
was it — I paused to think — what was it that 
so unnerved me in the contemplation of the House 
of Usher? It was a mystery all insoluble; nor 
could I grapple with the shadowy fancies that 
crowded upon me as I pondered. I was forced 
to fall back upon the unsatisfactory conclusion, 
that while, beyond doubt, there are combinations 
of very simple natural objects which have the 
power of thus affecting us, still the analysis of 
this power lies among considerations beyond our 
depth. It was* possible, I reflected, that a mere 
different arrangement of the particulars of the 
scene, of the details of the picture, would be suf¬ 
ficient to modify, or perhaps to annihilate its 
capacity for sorrowful impression; and, acting 
upon this idea, I reigned my horse to the pre¬ 
cipitous brink of a black and lurid tarn that lay in 
unruffled lustre by the dwelling, and gazed down 
— but with a shudder even more thrilling than 
before — upon the remodelled and inverted images 
of the grey sedge, and the ghastly tree-stems, and 
the vacant and eye-like windows. 

Nevertheless, in this mansion of gloom I now 
proposed to myself a sojourn of some weeks. Its 
proprietor, Roderick Usher, had been one of my 


266 FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 


boon companions in boyhood; but many years 
had elapsed since our last meeting. A letter, how¬ 
ever, had lately reached me in a distant part of 
the country — a letter from him — which, in its 
wildly importunate nature, had admitted of no 
other than a personal reply. The MS. gave 
evidence of nervous agitation. The writer spoke 
of acute bodily illness — of a mental disorder 
which oppressed him — and of an earnest desire to 
see me, as his best, and indeed, his only personal 
friend, with a view of attempting, by the cheerful¬ 
ness of my society, some alleviation of his malady. 
It was the manner in which all this, and much more, 
was said — it was the apparent heart that went 
with his request — which allowed me no room for 
hesitation; and I accordingly obeyed forthwith 
what I still considered a very singular summons. 

Although, as boys, we had been even intimate 
associates, yet I really knew little of my friend. 
His reserve had been always excessive and 
habitual. I was aware, however, that his very 
ancient family had been noted, time out of mind, 
for a peculiar sensibility of temperament, display¬ 
ing itself, through long ages, in many works of 
exalted art, and manifested of late in repeated 
deeds of munificent yet unobtrusive charity, as 
well as in a passionate devotion to the intricacies, 
perhaps, even more than to the orthodox and 
easily recognisable beauties, of music science. 
I had learned, too, the very remarkable fact, that 
the stem of the Usher race, all time-honoured as 


EDGAR ALLAN POE 


267 


it was, had put forth, at no period, any enduring 
branch; in other words, that the entire family 
lay in the direct line of descent, and had always, 
with very trifling and very temporary variation, 
so lain. It was this deficiency, I considered, while 
running over in thought the perfect keeping of 
the character of the premises with the accredited 
character of the people, and while speculating 
upon the possible influence which the one, in the 
long lapse of centuries, might have exercised upon 
the other — it was this deficiency, perhaps, of 
collateral issue, and the consequent undeviating 
transmission, from sire to son, of the patrimony 
with the name, which had, at length, so identified 
the two as to merge the original title of the estate 
in the quaint and equivocal appellation of the 
“ House of Usher ’’— an appellation which seemed 
to include in the minds of the peasantry who used 
it, both the family and the family mansion. 

I have said that the sole effect of my somewhat 
childish experiment — that of looking down within 
the tarn — had been to deepen the first singular 
impression. There can be no doubt that the con¬ 
sciousness of the rapid increase of my superstition 
—for why should I not so term it?— served mainly 
to accelerate the increase itself. Such, I have long 
known, is the paradoxical law of all sentiments 
having terror as a basis. And it might have been 
for this reason only, that, when I again uplifted 
my eyes to the house itself, from its image in the 
pool, there grew in my mind a strange fancy — 


268 FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 


a fancy so ridiculous, indeed, that I but mention 
it to show the vivid force of the sensations which 
oppressed me. I had so worked upon my imagina¬ 
tion as really to believe that about the whole 
mansion and domain there hung an atmosphere 
peculiar to themselves and their immediate vicinity 
— an atmosphere which had no affinity with the 
air of heaven, but which had reeked up from the 
decayed trees, and the grey walls, and the silent 
tarn — a pestilent and mystic vapour, dull, slug¬ 
gish, faintly discernible and leaden-hued. 

Shaking off from my spirit what must have been 
a dream, I scanned more narrowly the real aspect 
of the building. Its principal feature seemed to 
be that of an excessive antiquity. The discolor¬ 
ation of ages had been great. Minute fungi 
overspread the whole exterior, hanging in a fine 
tangled web-work from the eaves. Yet all this 
was apart from any extraordinary dilapidation. No 
portion of the masonry had fallen; and there 
appeared to be a wild inconsistency between its 
still perfect adaption of parts and the crumbling 
condition of the individual stones. In this there 
was much that reminded me of the specious totality 
of old woodwork which has rotted for long years 
in some neglected vault, with no disturbance from 
the breath of the external air. Beyond this indi¬ 
cation of extensive decay, however, the fabric gave 
little token of instability. Perhaps the eye of a 
scrutinising observer might have discovered a 
barely perceptible fissure, which, extended from 


EDGAR ALLAN POE 


269 


the roof of the building in front, made its way 
down the wall in a zigzag direction, until it became 
lost in the sullen waters of the tarn. 

Noticing these things, I rode over a short cause¬ 
way to the house. A servant in waiting took my 
horse, and I entered the Gothic archway of the 
hall. A valet of stealthy step thence conducted 
me, in silence, through many dark and intricate 
passages in my progress to the studio of his master. 
Much that I encountered on the way contributed, 
I know not how, to heighten the vague sentiments 
of which I have already spoken. While the objects 
around me — while the carvings of the ceilings, 
the sombre tapestries of the walls, the ebon black¬ 
ness of the floors, and the phantasmagoric 
armourial trophies which rattled as I strode, were 
but matters to which, or to such as which, I had 
been accustomed from my infancy — while I 
hesitated not to acknowledge how familiar was all 
this — I still wondered to find how unfamiliar 
were the fancies which ordinary images were 
stirring up. On one of the staircases I met the 
physician of the family. His countenance, I 
thought, wore a mingled expression of low cunning 
and perplexity. He accosted me with trepidation, 
and passed on. The valet now threw open a door 
and ushered me into the presence of his master. 

The room in which I found myself was very 
large and lofty. The windows were long, narrow, 
and pointed, and at so vast a distance from the 
black oaken floor as to be altogether inaccessible 


270 FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 


from within. Feeble gleams of encrimsoned light 
made their way through the trellised panes, and 
served to render sufficiently distinct the more 
prominent objects around; the eye, however, 
struggled in vain to reach the remoter angles of 
the chamber, or the recesses of the vaulted and 
fretted ceiling. Dark draperies hung upon the 
walls. The general furniture was profuse, com¬ 
fortless, antique, and tattered. Many books and 
musical instruments lay scattered about, but failed 
to give any vitality to the scene. I felt that I 
breathed an atmosphere of sorrow. An air of 
stern, deep, and irredeemable gloom hung over and 
pervaded all. 

Upon my entrance, Usher arose from a sofa 
on which he had been lying at full length, and 
greeted me with a vivacious warmth which had 
much in it, I at first thought, of an overdone 
cordiality — of the constrained effort of the 
ennuye man of the world. A glance, however, 
at his countenance, convinced me of his perfect 
sincerity. We sat down; and for some moments, 
while he spoke not, I gazed upon him with a feeling 
half of pity, half of awe. Surely man had never 
before so terribly altered in so brief a period as 
had Roderick Usher! It was with difficulty that 
I could bring myself to admit the identity of the 
wan being before me with the companion of my 
early boyhood. Yet the character of his face had 
been at all times remarkable. A cadaverousness 
of complexion; an eye large, liquid, and luminous 


EDGAR ALLAN POE 


271 


beyond comparison; lips somewhat thin and very 
pallid, but of a surpassingly beautiful curve; a nose 
of a delicate Hebrew model, but with a breadth 
of nostril unusual in similar formations; a finely- 
moulded chin, speaking, in its want of prominence, 
of a want of moral energy; hair of a more than 
web-like softness and tenuity; these features, with 
an inordinate expansion above the regions of the 
temple, made up altogether a countenance not 
easily to be forgotten. And now in the mere 
exaggeration of the prevailing character of these 
features, and of the expression they were wont to 
convey, lay so much of change that I doubted to 
whom I spoke. The now ghastly pallour of the 
skin, and the now miraculous lustre of the eye, 
above all things startled and even awed me. The 
silken hair, too, had been suffered to grow all 
unheeded, and as, in its wild gossamer texture, 
it floated rather than fell about the face, I could 
not, even with effort, connect its arabesque expres¬ 
sion with any idea of simple humanity. 

In the manner of my friend I was at once 
struck with an incoherence — an inconsistency; 
and I soon found this to arise from a series of 
feeble and futile struggles to overcome an habitual 
trepidancy — an excessive nervous agitation. For 
something of this nature I had indeed been pre¬ 
pared, no less by his letter than by reminiscences 
of certain boyish traits, and by conclusions deduced 
from his peculiar physical conformation and tem¬ 
perament. His action was alternately vivacious 


272 FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 


and sullen. His voice varied rapidly from a tremu¬ 
lous indecision (when the animal spirits seemed 
utterly in abeyance) to that species of energetic 
concision — that abrupt, weighty, unhurried, and 
hollow-sounding enunciation — that leaden, self- 
balanced and perfectly modulated guttural utter¬ 
ance, which may be observed in the lost drunkard, 
or the irreclaimable eater of opium, during the 
periods of his most intense excitement. 

It was thus that he spoke of the object of my 
visit, of his earnest desire to see me, and of the 
solace he expected me to afford him. He entered 
at some length into what he conceived to be the 
nature of his malady. It was, he said, a con¬ 
stitutional and family evil, and one for which 
he despaired to find a remedy — a mere nervous 
affection, he immediately added, which would 
undoubtedly soon pass off. It displayed itself in 
a host of unnatural sensations. Some of these, 
as he detailed them, interested and bewildered 
me; although, perhaps, the terms, and the general 
manner of the narration, had their weight. He 
suffered much from a morbid acuteness of the 
senses; the most insipid food was alone endurable; 
he could wear only garments of certain texture; 
the odours of all flowers were oppressive; his eyes 
were tortured by even a faint light; and there 
were but peculiar sounds, and these from stringed 
instruments, which did not inspire him with 
horror. 

To an anomalous species of terror I found him 


EDGAR ALLAN POE 


273 


a bounden slave. “ I shall perish/^ said he, I 
must perish in this deplorable folly. Thus, thus, 
and not otherwise, shall I be lost. I dread the 
events of the future, not in themselves, but in 
their results. I shudder at the thought of any, 
even the most trivial, incident, which may operate 
upon this intolerable agitation of soul. I have, 
indeed, no abhorrence of danger, except in its 
absolute effect — in terror. In this unnerved — 
in this pitiable condition — I feel that the period 
will sooner or later arrive when I must abandon 
life and reason together in some struggle with the 
grim phantasm, Fear.’^ 

I learned, moreover, at intervals, and through 
broken and equivocal hints, another singular 
feature of his mental condition. He was enchained 
by certain superstitious impressions in regard to 
the dwelling which he tenanted, and whence, for 
many years, he had never ventured forth — in 
regard to an influence whose suppositious force 
was conveyed in terms too shadowy here to be 
re-stated — an influence which some peculiarities 
in the mere form and substance of his family 
mansion, had, by dint of long sufferance, he said, 
obtained over his spirit — an effect which the 
physique of the grey walls and turrets, and of the 
dim tarn into which they all looked down, had, 
at length, brought about upon the morale of his 
existence. 

He admitted, however, although with hesita¬ 
tion, that much of the peculiar gloom which thus 


274 FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 


afflicted him could be traced to a more natural 
and far more palpable origin — to the severe and 
long-continued illness — indeed to the evidently 
approaching dissolution — of a tenderly beloved 
sister — his sole companion for long years — his 
last and only relative on earth. Her decease/’ 
he said, with a bitterness which I can never for¬ 
get, “ would leave him (him the hopeless and the 
frail) the last of the ancient race of the Ushers.” 
While he spoke, the Lady Madeline (for so she 
was called) passed slowly through a remote portion 
of the apartment, and, without having noticed my 
presence, disappeared. I regarded her with an 
utter astonishment not unmingled with dread — 
and yet I found it impossible to account for such 
feelings. A sensation of stupor oppressed me, 
as my eyes followed her retreating steps. When 
a door, at length, closed upon her, my glance 
sought instinctively and eagerly the countenance 
of the brother — but he had buried his face in his 
hands, and I could only perceive that a far more 
than ordinary wanness had overspread the emaci¬ 
ated fingers through which trickled many passion¬ 
ate tears. 

The disease of the Lady Madeline had long 
baffled the skill of her physicians. A settled 
apathy, a gradual wasting away of the person, and 
frequent although transient affections of a partially 
cataleptical character, were the unusual diagnosis. 
Hitherto she had steadily borne up against the 
pressure of her malady, and had not betaken her- 


EDGAR ALLAN POE 


275 


self finally to bed; but, on the closing in of the 
evening of my arrival at the house, she succumbed 
(as her brother told me at night with inexpressible 
agitation) to the prostrating power of the 
destroyer; and I learned that the glimpse I had 
obtained of her person would thus probably be 
the last I should obtain — that the lady, at least 
while living, would be seen by me no more. 

For several days ensuing her name was unmen¬ 
tioned by either Usher or myself; and during this 
period I was busied in earnest endeavours to alle¬ 
viate the melancholy of my friend. We painted 
and read together; or I listened, as if in a dream, 
to the wild improvisations of his speaking guitar. 
And thus, as a closer and still closer intimacy 
admitted me more unreservedly into the recesses 
of his spirit, the more bitterly did I perceive the 
futility of all attempt at cheering a mind from 
which darkness, as an inherent positive quality, 
poured forth upon all objects of the moral and 
physical universe in one unceasing radiation of 
gloom. 

I shall ever bear about me a memory of the 
many solemn hours I thus spent alone with the 
master of the House of Usher. Yet I should fail 
in any attempt to convey an idea of the exact 
character of the studies, or of the occupations, 
in which he involved me, or led me the way. An 
excited and highly distempered ideality threw a 
sulphureous lustre over all. His long improvised 
dirges will ring forever in my ears. Among other 


276 FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 


things, I hold painfully in mind a certain singular 
perversion and amplification of the wild air of the 
last waltz of Von Weber. From the paintings 
over which his elaborate fancy brooded, and which 
grew, touch by touch, into vagueness at which I 
shuddered the more thrillingly, because I shud¬ 
dered knowing not why;—from these paintings 
(vivid as their images now are before me) I would 
in vain endeavour to educe more than a small 
portion which should lie within the compass of 
merely written words. By the utter simplicity, 
by the nakedness of his designs, he arrested and 
overawed attention. If ever mortal painted an 
idea, that mortal was Roderick Usher. For me 
at least — in the circumstances then surrounding 
me — there arose out of the pure abstractions 
which the hypochondriac contrived to throw upon 
his canvas, an intensity of intolerable awe, no 
shadow of which felt I ever yet in the contem¬ 
plation of the certainly glowing yet too concrete 
reveries of Fuseli. 

One of the phantasmagoric conceptions of my 
friend, partaking not so rigidly of the spirit of 
abstraction, may be shadowed forth, although 
feebly, in words. A small picture presented the 
interior of an immensely long and rectangular 
vault or tunnel, with low walls, smooth, white, 
and without interruption or device. Certain 
accessory points of the design served well to con¬ 
vey the idea that this excavation lay at an exceed¬ 
ing depth below the surface of the earth. No 


EDGAR ALLAN POE 


277 


outlet was observed in any portion of its vast 
extent, and no torch, or other artificial source of 
light was discernible; yet a flood of intense rays 
rolled throughout, and bathed the whole in a 
ghastly and inappropriate splendour. 

I have just spoken of that morbid condition 
of the auditory nerve which rendered all music 
intolerable to the sufferer, with the exception of 
certain effects of stringed instruments. It was, 
perhaps, the narrow limits to which he thus con¬ 
fined himself upon the guitar, which gave birth, 
in great measure, to the fantastic character of his 
performances. But the fervid facility of his 
impromptus could not be so accounted for. They 
must have been, and were, in the notes, as well as 
in the words of his wild fantasia (for he not unfre- 
quently accompanied himself with rhymed verbal 
improvisations), the result of that intense mental 
collectedness and concentration to which I have 
previously alluded as observable only in particular 
moments of the highest artificial excitement. The 
words of one of these rhapsodies I have easily 
remembered. I was, perhaps, the more forcibly 
impressed with it, as he gave it, because, in the 
under or mystic current of its meaning, I fancied 
that I perceived, and for the first time, a full con¬ 
sciousness on the part of Usher, of the tottering 
of his lofty reason upon her throne. The verses, 
which were entitled '' The Haunted Palace,'’ ran 
very nearly, if not accurately, thus: 


278 FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 

I 

In the greenest of our valleys, 

By good angels tenanted, 

Once a fair and stately palace — 

Radiant palace — reared its head. 

In the monarch Thought’s dominion — 

It stood there! 

Never seraph spread a pinion 
Over fabric half so fair. 

II ' 

Banners yellow, glorious, golden, 

On its roof did float and flow; 

(This — all this — was in the olden 
Time long ago) 

And every gentle air that dallied. 

In that sweet day, 

Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, 

A winged odour went away. 

III 

Wanderers in that happy valley 
Through two luminous windows saw 

Spirits moving musically 
To a lute’s well tuned law. 

Round about a throne, where sitting 
(Porphyrogene!) 

In state his glory well befitting, 

The ruler of the realm was seen. 

IV 

And all with pearl and ruby glowing 
Was the fair palace door, 

Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing 
And sparkling evermore, 


EDGAR ALLAN POE 


279 


A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty 
Was but to sing, 

In voices of surpassing beauty, 

The wit and wisdom of their king. 

V 

But evil things, in robes of sorrow. 
Assailed the monarch’s high estate; 
(Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow 
Shall dawn upon him, desolate 1) 
And, round about his home, the glory 
That blushed and bloomed 
Is but a dim-remembered story 
Of the old time entombed. 


VI 

And travellers now within that valley. 

Through the red-litten windows, see 
Vast forms that move fantastically 
To a discordant melody; 

While, like a rapid ghastly river. 

Through the pale door, 

A hideous throng rush out forever, 

And laugh — but smile no more. 

I well remember that suggestions arising from 
this ballad, led us into a train of thought wherein 
there became manifest an opinion of Usher’s which 
I mention not so much on account of its novelty 
(for other men^ have thought thus), as on account 
of the pertinacity with which he maintained it. 

^Watson, Dr. Percival, Spallanzani, and especially the Bishop 
of Llandaff. See Chemical Essays, vol. v. 


280 FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 


This opinion, in its general form, was that of the 
sentience of all vegetable things. But, in his dis¬ 
ordered fancy, the idea had assumed a more daring 
character, and trespassed, under certain conditions, 
upon the kingdom of inorganisation. I lack words 
to express the full extent, or the earnest abandon 
of his persuasion. The belief, however, was con¬ 
nected (as I have previously hinted) with the 
grey stones of the home of his forefathers. The 
conditions of the sentience had been here, he 
imagined, fulfilled in the method of collocation of 
these stones — in the order of their arrangement, 
as well as in that of the many jungi which over¬ 
spread them, and of the decayed trees which stood 
around — above all, in the long undisturbed 
endurance of this arrangement, and in its redupli¬ 
cation in the still waters of the tarn. Its evidence 
— the evidence of the sentience — was to be seen, 
he said (and I here started as he spoke), in the 
gradual yet certain condensation of an atmosphere 
of their own about the waters and the walls. The 
result was discoverable, he added, in that silent, 
yet importunate and terrible influence which for 
centuries had moulded the destinies of his family, 
and which made him what I now saw him — what 
he was. Such opinions need no comment, and I 
will make none. 

Our books — the books which, for years, had 
formed no small portion of the mental existence 
of the invalid — were, as might be supposed, in 
strict keeping with this character of phantasm. 


EDGAR ALLAN POE 


281 


We pored together over such works as the Ververt 
et Chartreuse of Cresset; the Belphegor of Machia- 
velli; the Heaven and Hell of Swedenborg; the 
Subterranean Voyage of Nicholas Klimm by Hol- 
berg; the Chiromancy of Robert Flud, of Jean 
P’Indagine, and of De la Chambre; the Journey 
into the Blue Distance of Tieck; and the City of 
the Sun of Campanella. One favourite volume was 
a small octavo edition of the Directorium Inquisi- 
torum, by the Dominican Eymeric de Gironne; 
and there were passages in Pomponius Mela, about 
the old African Satyrs and iEgipans, over which 
Usher would sit dreaming for hours. His chief 
delight, however, was found in the perusal of an 
exceedingly rare and curious book in quarto 
Gothic — the manual of a forgotten Church — the 
Vigilioe Mortuorum Chorum Ecclesioe Maguntince. 

I could not help thinking of the wild ritual of 
this work, and of its probable influence upon 
the hypochondriac, when, one evening, having 
informed me abruptly that the Lady Madeline 
was no more, he stated his intention of preserving 
her corpse for a fortnight (previous to its final 
interment), in one of the numerous vaults within 
the main walls of the building. The worldly reason, 
however, assigned for this singular proceeding was 
one which I did not feel at liberty to dispute. The 
brother had been led to his resolution (so he told 
me) by consideration of the unusual character of 
the malady of the deceased, of certain obtrusive 
and eager inquiries on the part of her medical 


282 FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 


men, and of the remote and exposed situation of 
the iDurial-ground of the family. I will not deny 
that when I called to mind the sinister countenance 
of the person whom I met upon the staircase, on 
the day of my arrival at the house, I had no desire 
to oppose what I had regarded as at best but a 
harmless and by no means an unnatural pre¬ 
caution. 

At the request of Usher, I personally aided him 
in the arrangements for the temporary entomb¬ 
ment. The body having been encoffined, we two 
alone bore it to its rest. The vault in which we 
placed it (and which had been so long unopened 
that our torches, half smothered in its oppressive 
atmosphere, gave us little opportunity for investi¬ 
gation) was small, damp, and entirely without 
means of admission for light, lying, at great depth, 
immediately beneath that portion of the building 
in which was my own sleeping apartment. It 
had been used, apparently, in remote feudal times, 
for the worst purpose of a donjon-keep, and, in 
later days, as a place of deposit for powder, or 
some highly combustible substance, as a portion 
of its floor, and the whole interior of a long arch¬ 
way through which we reached it, were carefully 
sheathed with copper. The door, of massive iron, 
had been, also, similarly protected. Its immense 
weight caused an unusually sharp grating sound, 
as it moved upon its hinges. 

Having deposited our mournful burden upon 
tressles within this region of horror, we partially 


EDGAR ALLAN POE 


283 


turned aside the yet unscrewed lid of the coffin, 
and looked upon the face of the tenant. A strik¬ 
ing similitude between the brother and sister now 
first arrested my attention; and Usher, divining, 
perhaps, my thoughts, murmured out some few 
words from which I learned that the deceased and 
himself had been twins, and that sympathies of 
a scarcely intelligible nature had always existed 
between them. Our glances, however, rested not 
long upon the dead — for we could not regard her 
unawed. The disease which had thus entombed 
the lady in the maturity of youth, had left, as 
usual in all maladies of a strictly cataleptical 
character, the mockery of a faint blush upon the 
bosom and the face, and that suspiciously lingering 
smile upon the lip which is so terrible in death. 
We replaced and screwed down the lid, and, having 
secured the door of iron, made our way, with toil, 
into the scarcely less gloomy apartments of the 
upper portion of the house. 

And now, some days of bitter grief having 
elapsed, an observable change came over the 
features of the mental disorder of my friend. 
His ordinary manner had vanished. His ordinary 
occupations were neglected or forgotten. He 
roamed from chamber to chamber with hurried, 
unequal, and objectless step. The pallor of his 
countenance had assumed, if possible, a more 
ghastly hue — but the luminousness of his eye had 
utterly gone out. The once occasional huskiness 
of his tone was heard no more; and a tremulous 


284 FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 


quaver, as if of extreme terror, habitually char¬ 
acterised his utterance. There were times, indeed, 
when I thought his unceasingly agitated mind was 
labouring with some oppressive secret, to divulge 
which he struggled for the necessary courage. At 
times, again, I was obliged to resolve all into the 
mere inexplicable vagaries of madness, for I beheld 
him gazing upon vacancy for long hours, in an 
attitude of the profoundest attention, as if listen¬ 
ing to some imaginary sound. It was no wonder 
that his condition terrified — that it infected me. 
I felt creeping upon me, by slow yet certain 
degrees, the wild influences of his own fantastic 
yet impressive superstitions. 

It was, especially, upon retiring to bed late in 
the night of the seventh or eighth day after the 
placing of the Lady Madeline within the donjon, 
that I experienced the full power of such feelings. 
Sleep came not near my couch — while the hours 
waned and waned away. I struggled to reason 
off the nervousness which had dominion over me. 
I endeavoured to believe that much, if not all 
of what I felt, was due to the bewildering influ¬ 
ence of the gloomy furniture of the room — of 
the dark and tattered draperies, which, tortured 
into motion by the breath of a rising tempest, 
swayed fitfully to and fro upon the walls, and 
rustled uneasily about the decorations of the bed. 
But my efforts were fruitless. An irrepressible 
tremor gradually pervaded my frame; and, at 
length, there sat upon my very heart an incubus 


EDGAR ALLAN POE 


285 


of utterly causeless alarm. Shaking this off with 
a gasp and a struggle, I uplifted myself upon the 
pillows, and, peering earnestly within the intense 
darkness of the chamber, hearkened — I know not 
why, except that an instinctive spirit prompted 
me — to certain low and indefinite sounds which 
came, through the pauses of the storm, at long 
intervals, I know not whence. Overpowered by 
an intense sentiment of horror, unaccountable yet 
unendurable, I threw on my clothes with haste 
(for I felt that I should sleep no more during the 
night), and endeavoured to arouse myself from 
the pitiable condition into which I had fallen, by 
pacing rapidly to and fro through the apartment. 

I had taken but few turns in this manner, when 
a light step on an adjoining staircase arrested my 
attention. I presently recognised it as that of 
Usher. In an instant afterward he rapped, with 
a gentle touch at my door, and entered, bearing a 
lamp. His countenance was, as usual, cadaver¬ 
ously wan — but, moreover, there was a species of 
mad hilarity in his eyes — an evidently restrained 
hysteria in his whole demeanour. His air appalled 
me — but anything was preferable to the solitude 
which I had so long endured, and I even welcomed 
his presence as a relief. 

And you have not seen it?’^ he said abruptly, 
after having stared about him for some moments 
in silence —you have not then seen it?— but, 
stay! you shall.’’ Thus speaking, and having 
carefully shaded his lamp, he hurried to one of the 


286 FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 


casements, and threw it freely open to the storm. 

The impetuous fury of the entering gust nearly 
lifted us from our feet. It was, indeed, a tempest¬ 
uous yet sternly beautiful night, and one wildly 
singular in its terror and its beauty. A whirlwind 
had apparently collected its force in our vicinity; 
for there were frequent and violent alterations in 
the direction of the wind; and the exceeding 
density of the clouds (which hung so low as to 
press upon the turrets of the house) did not pre¬ 
vent our perceiving the lifelike velocity with which 
they flew careering from all points against each 
other, without passing away into the distance. I 
say that even their exceeding density did not pre¬ 
vent our perceiving this — yet we had no glimpse 
of the moon or stars — nor was there any flashing 
forth of the lightning. But the under surfaces 
of the huge masses of agitated vapour, as well as 
all terrestrial objects immediately around us, were 
glowing in the unnatural light of a faintly lumi¬ 
nous and distinctly visible gaseous exhalation 
which hung about and enshrouded the mansion. 

‘‘You must not — you shall not behold this!’’ 
said I, shudderingly, to Usher, as I led him, with 
a gentle violence, from the window to a seat. 
“ These appearances, which bewilder you, are 
merely electrical phenomena not uncommon — or 
it may be that they have their ghastly origin in 
the rank miasma of the tarn. Let us close this 
casement;—the air is chilling and dangerous to 
your frame. Here is one of your favourite 


EDGAR ALLAN POE 


287 


romances. I will read, and you shall listen;— 
and so we will pass away this terrible night 
together.’^ 

The antique volume which I had taken up was 
the Mad Trist of Sir Launcelot Canning; but I 
had called it a favourite of Usher’s more in sad 
jest than in earnest, for, in truth, there is little 
in its uncouth and unimaginative prolixity which 
could have had interest for the lofty and spiritual 
ideality of my friend. It was, however, the only 
book immediately at hand; and I indulged a vague 
hope that the excitement which now agitated the 
hypochondriac, might find relief (for the history 
of mental disorder is full of similar anomalies) 
even in the extremeness of the folly which I should 
read. Could I have judged, indeed, by the wild 
overstrained air of vivacity with which he 
hearkened, or apparently hearkened, to the words 
of the tale, I might well have congratulated myself 
upon the success of my design. 

I had arrived at that well-known portion of the 
story where Ethelred, the hero of the Trist, having 
sought in vain for peaceable admission into the 
dwelling of the hermit, proceeds to make good an 
entrance by force. Here, it will be remembered, 
the words of the narrative run thus: 

“ And Ethelred, who was by nature of a doughty 
heart, and who was now mighty withal, on account 
of the powerfulness of the wine which he had 
drunken, waited no longer to hold parley with 
the hermit, who, in sooth, was of an obstinate and 


288 FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 


maliceful turn, but, feeling the rain upon his 
shoulders, and fearing the rising of the tempest, 
uplifted his mace outright, and, with blows, made 
quickly room in the plankings of the door for his 
gauntleted hand; and now pulling therewith 
sturdily, he so cracked, and ripped, and tore all 
asunder, that the noise of the dry and hollow¬ 
sounding wood alarmed and reverberated through¬ 
out the forest.” 

At the termination of this sentence I started, 
and, for a moment, paused; for it appeared to me 
(although I at once concluded that my excited 
fancy had deceived me)— it appeared to me that, 
from some very remote portion of the mansion, 
there came, indistinctly, to my ears, what might 
have been, in its exact similarity of character, the 
echo (but a stifled and dull one certainly) of the 
very cracking and ripping sound which Sir Launce- 
lot had so particularly described. It was, beyond 
doubt, the coincidence alone which had arrested 
my attention; for, amid the rattling of the sashes 
of the casements, and the ordinary commingled 
noises of the still increasing storm, the sound, in 
itself, had nothing, surely, which should have 
interested or disturbed me. I continued the 
story: 

But the good champion Ethelred, now enter¬ 
ing within the door, was sore enraged and amazed 
to perceive no signal of the maliceful hermit; but, 
in the stead thereof, a dragon of a scaly and 
prodigious demeanour, and of a fiery tongue, which 


EDGAR ALLAN POE 


289 


sate in guard before a palace of gold, with a floor 
of silver; and upon the wall there hung a shield 
of shining brass with this legend enwritten — 

Who entereth herein, a conqueror hath bin; 

Who slayeth the dragon, the shield he shall win; 

and Ethelred uplifted his mace, and struck upon 
the head of the dragon, which fell before him, and 
gave up his pesty breath, with a shriek so horrid, 
and harsh, and withal so piercing, that Ethelred 
had fain to close his ears with his hands against 
the dreadful noise of it, the like whereof was never 
before heard/’ 

Here again I paused abruptly, and now with a 
feeling of wild amazement — for there could be 
no doubt whatever that, in this instance, I did 
actually hear (although from what direction it 
proceeded I found it impossible to say) a low and 
apparently distant, but harsh, protracted, and 
most unusual screaming or grating sound — the 
exact counterpart of what my fancy had already 
conjured up for the dragon’s unnatural shriek as 
described by the romancer. 

Oppressed, as I certainly was, upon the occur¬ 
rence of the second and most extraordinary coin¬ 
cidence, by a thousand conflicting sensations, in 
which wonder and extreme terror were predomi¬ 
nant, I still retained sufficient presence of mind to 
avoid exciting, by any observation, the sensitive 
nervousness of my companion. I was by no means 
certain that he had noticed the sounds in ques- 


290 FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 


tion; although, assuredly, a strange alteration had, 
during the last few minutes, taken place in his 
demeanour. From a position fronting my own, 
he had gradually brought round his chair, so as 
to sit with his face to the door of the chamber; 
and thus I could but partially perceive his features, 
although I saw that his lips trembled as if he were 
murmuring inaudibly. His head had dropped upon 
his breast — yet I knew that he was not asleep, 
from the wide and rigid opening of the eye as I 
caught a glance of it in profile. The motion of 
his body, too, was at variance with this idea — 
for he rocked from side to side with a gentle yet 
constant and uniform sway. Having rapidly taken 
notice of all this, I resumed the narrative of Sir 
Launcelot, which thus proceeded: 

“ And now, the champion, having escaped from 
the terrible fury of the dragon, bethinking himself 
of the brazen shield, and of the breaking up of the 
enchantment which was upon it, removed the 
carcass from out of the way before him, and 
approached valorously over the silver pavement 
of the castle to where the shield was upon the 
wall; which in sooth tarried not for his full coming, 
but fell down at his feet upon the silver floor, with 
a mighty great and terrible ringing sound.” 

No sooner had these syllables passed my lips, 
than — as if a shield of brass had indeed, at the 
moment, fallen heavily upon a floor of silver — 
I became aware of a distinct, hollow, metallic, 
and clangorous, yet apparently muffled reverber- 


EDGAR ALLAN POE 


291 


ation/ Completely unnerved, I leaped to my feet; 
but the measured rocking movement of Usher was 
undisturbed. I rushed to the chair in which he 
sat. His eyes were bent fixedly before him, and 
throughout his whole countenance there reigned 
a stony rigidity. But, as I placed my hand upon 
his shoulder, there came a strong shudder over 
his whole person; a sickly smile quivered about 
his lips; and I saw that he spoke in a low, hurried, 
and gibbering murmur, as if unconscious of my 
presence. Bending closely over him, I at length 
drank in the hideous import of his words. 

“ Not hear it?—yes, I hear it, and have heard 
it. Long — long — long—many minutes, many 
hours, many days, have I heard it — yet I dared 
not — Oh, pity me, miserable wretch that I am! 
— I dared not — I dared not speak! We have put 
her living in the tomb! Said I not that my senses 
were acute? I now tell you that I heard her 
first feeble movements in the hollow coffin. I 
heard them — many, many days ago — yet I dared 
not — / dared not speak! And now — tonight — 
Ethelred — ha! ha!— the breaking of the hermit's 
door, and the death-cry of the dragon, and the 
clanging of the shield!—say, rather, the rending 
of her coffin, and the grating of the iron hinges of 
her prison, and her struggles within the coppered 
archway of the vault! Oh, whither shall I fly? 
Will she not be here anon? Is she not hurrying 
to upbraid me for my haste? Have I not heard 
her footstep on the stair? Do I not distinguish 


292 FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 


that heavy and horrible beating of her heart? 
Madman!’’ here he sprang furiously to his feet, 
and shrieked out his syllables, as if in the effort 
he were giving up his soul—“M adman! I tell 

YOU THAT SHE NOAV STANDS WITHOUT THE DOOR!” 

As if in the superhuman energy of his utterance 
there had been found the potency of a spell — the 
huge antique panels to which the speaker pointed, 
threw slowly back, upon the instant, their pon¬ 
derous and ebony jaws. It was the work of the 
rushing gust — but then without those doors there 
DID stand the lofty and enshrouded figure of the 
Lady Madeline of Usher. There was blood upon 
her white robes and the evidence of some bitter 
struggle upon every portion of her emaciated 
frame. For a moment she remained trembling and 
reeling to and fro upon the threshold, then, with 
a low moaning cry, fell heavily inward upon the 
person of her brother, and in her violent and now 
final death-agonies, bore him to the floor a corpse, 
and a victim to the terrors he had anticipated. 

From that chamber, and from that mansion, I 
fled aghast. The storm was still abroad in all its 
wrath as I found myself crossing the old causeway. 
Suddenly there shot along the path a wild light, 
and I turned to see whence a gleam so unusual 
could have issued; for the vast house and its 
shadows were alone behind me. The radiance was 
that of the full, setting, and blood-red moon which 
now shone vividly through that once barely- 
discernible fissure of which I have before spoken 


EDGAR ALLAN POE 


293 


as extending from the roof of the building, in a 
zigzag direction, to the base. While I gazed, this 
fissure rapidly widened—there came a fierce breath 
of the whirlwind — the entire orb of the satellite 
burst at once upon my sight — my brain reeled 
as I saw the mighty walls rushing asunder — there 
was a long tumultuous shouting sound like the 
voice of a thousand waters — and the deep and 
dank tarn at my feet closed sullenly and silently 
over the fragments of the House of Usher.^’ 


THE VICTIM 


By May Sinclair 
I 

Steven Acroyd, Mr. Greathead^s chauffeur, was 
sulking in the garage. 

Everybody was afraid of him. Everybody 
hated him except Mr. Greathead, his master, and 
Dorsy, his sweetheart. 

And even Dorsy now, after yesterday! 

Night had come. On one side the yard gates 
stood open to the black tunnel of the drive. On 
the other the high moor rose above the wall, 
immense, darker than the darkness. Steven’s 
lantern in the open doorway of the garage and 
Dorsy’s lamp in the kitchen window threw a blond 
twilight into the yard between. From where he 
sat, slantways on the step of the car, he could 
see, through the lighted window, the table with the 
lamp and Dorsy’s sewing huddled up in a white 
heap as she left it just now, when she had 
jumped up and gone away. Because she was 
afraid of him. 

She had gone straight to Mr. Greathead in his 
study, and Steven, sulking, had flung himself out 
into the yard. 

• He stared into the window, thinking, thinking. 

^From Uncanny Stories. (Hutchinson & Co.) 

294 


MAY SINCLAIR 


295 


Everybody hated him. He could tell by the damned 
spiteful way they looked at him in the bar of the 

King’s Arms kind of sideways and slink-eyed, 
turning their dirty tails and shuffling out of his 
way. 

He had said to Dorsy he’d like to know what 
he’d done. He’d just dropped in for his glass as 
usual; he’d looked round and said, “Good eve¬ 
ning,” civil, and the dirty tykes took no more notice 
of him than if he’d been a toad. Mrs. Oldishaw, 
Dorsy’s aunt, she hated him, boiled-ham-face, 
swelling with spite, shoving his glass at the end 
of her arm, without speaking, as if he’d been' a 
bloody cockroach. 

All because of the thrashing he’d given young 
Ned Oldishaw. If she didn’t want the cub’s neck 
broken she’d better keep him out of mischief. 
Young Ned knew what he’d get if he came med¬ 
dling with his sweetheart. 

It had happened yesterday afternoon, Sunday, 
when he had gone down with Dorsy to the “ King’s 
Arms ” to see her aunt. They were sitting out 
on the wooden bench against the inn wall when 
young Ned began it. He could see him now with 
his arm round Dorsy’s neck and his mouth gaping. 
And Dorsy laughing like a silly fool and the old 
woman snorting and shaking. 

He could hear him. “ She’s my cousin if she 
is your sweetheart. You can’t stop me kissing 
her.” Couldn't he! 

Why, what did they think? When he’d given 


296 


THE VICTIM 


up his good job at the Darlington Motor Works 
to come to Eastthwaite and black Mr. Greathead’s 
boots, chop wood, carry coal and water for him 
and drive his shabby secondhand car. Not that 
he cared what he did so long as he could live in 
the same house with Dorsy Oldishaw. It wasn’t 
likely he’d sit like a bloody Moses, looking on, 
while Ned —— 

To be sure, he had half killed him. He could 
feel Ned’s neck swelling and rising under the pres¬ 
sure of his hands, his fingers. He had struck him 
first, flinging him back against the inn wall, then 
he had pinned him — till the men ran up and 
dragged him off. 

And now they were all against him. Dorsy was 
against him. She had said she was afraid of him. 

Steven,” she had said, tha med’a killed 
him.” 

“Well — p’r’aps next time he’ll knaw better 
than to coom meddlin’ with my lass.” 

“ I’m not thy lass, ef tha canna keep thy hands 
off folks. I should be feared for my life of thee. 
Ned wurn’s doing naw ’arm.” 

“ Ef he does it again, ef he cooms between thee 
and me, Dorsy, I shall do ’im in.” 

“ Naw, tha’ maunna talk that road.” 

“ It’s Gawd’s truth. Anybody that cooms be¬ 
tween thee and me, loove, I shall do ’im in. Ef 
’twas thy aunt, I should wring ’er neck, same as I 
wroong Ned’s.” 

“ And ef it was me, Steven?” 



MAY SINCLAIR 


297 


'' Ef it wur thee, ef tha left me — Aw, doan't 
tha assk me, Dorsy.’’ 

“ There — that’s ’ow tha scares me.” 

“ But tha’ ’astna left me —’tes thy wedding 
claithes tha’rt making.” 

Aye, ’tes my wedding claithes.” 

She had started fingering the white stuff, look¬ 
ing at it with her head on one side, smiling prettily. 
Then all of a sudden she had flung it down in a 
heap and burst out crying. When he tried to 
comfort her she pushed him off and ran out of 
the room, to Mr. Greathead. 

It must have been half an hour ago and she 
had not come back yet. 

He got up and went through the yard gates into 
the dark drive. Turning there, he came to the 
house front and the lighted window of the study. 
Hidden behind a clump of yew he looked in. 

Mr. Greathead had risen from his chair. He was 
a little old man, shrunk and pinched, with a bowed 
back and slender neck under his grey hanks of hair. 

Dorsy stood before him, facing Steven. The 
lamplight fell full on her. Her sweet flower-face 
was flushed. She had been crying. 

Mr. Greathead spoke. 

Well, that’s my advice,” he said. Think it 
over, Dorsy, before you do anything.” 

That night Dorsy packed her boxes, and the 
next day at noon, when Steven came in for his 
dinner, she had left the Lodge. She had gone back 
to her father’s house in Garthdale. 


298 


THE VICTIM 


She wrote to Steven saying that she had thought 
it over and found she daren’t marry him. She was 
afraid of him. She would be too unhappy. 

II 

That was the old man, the old man. He had 
made her give him up. But for that, Dorsy 
would never have left him. She would never have 
thought of it herself. And she would never have 
got away if he had been there to stop her. It 
wasn’t Ned. Ned was going to marry Nancy 
Peacock down at Morfe. Ned hadn’t done any 
harm. 

It was Mr. Greathead who had come between 
them. He hated Mr. Greathead. 

His hate became a nausea of physical loathing 
that never ceased. Indoors he served Mr. Great- 
head as footman and valet, waiting on him at 
meals, bringing the hot water for his bath, helping 
him to dress and undress. So that he could never 
get away from him. When he came to call him in 
the morning, Steven’s stomach heaved at the sight 
of the shrunken body under the bed-clothes, the 
flushed, pinched face with its peaked, finicking nose 
upturned, the thin silver tuft of hair pricked up 
above the pillow’s edge. Steven shivered with hate 
at the sound of the rattling, old-man’s cough, and 
the “ shoob-shoob ” of the feet shuffling along the 
flagged passages. 

He had once had a feeling of tenderness for 
Mr. Greathead as the tie that bound him to Dorsy. 


MAY SINCLAIR 


299 


He even brushed his coat and hat, tenderly, as if 
he loved them. Once Mr. Greathead's small, close 
smile — the greyish bud of the lower lip pushed 
out, the upper lip lifted at the corners — and his 
kind, thin ‘‘ Thank you, my lad,” had made Steven 
smile back, glad to serve Dorsy^s master. And 
Mr. Greathead would smile again and say, It 
does me good to see your bright face,- Steven.” 
Now Steven’s face writhed in a tight contortion 
to meet Mr. Greathead’s kindliness, while his 
throat ran dry and his heart shook with hate. 

At meal-times from his place by the sideboard 
he would look on at Mr. Greathead eating, in a 
long contemplative disgust. He could have 
snatched the plate away from under the slow, 
fumbling hands that hovered and hesitated. He 
would catch words coming into his mind: He 
ought to be dead. He ought to be dead.” To 
think that this thing that ought to be dead, this 
old, shrivelled skin-bag of creaking bones should 
come between him and Dorsy, should have power 
to drive Dorsy from him. 

One day when he was brushing Mr. Greathead’s 
soft felt hat a paroxysm of hatred gripped him. 
He hated Mr. Greathead’s hat. He took a stick 
and struck at it again and again; he threw it on 
the flags and stamped on it, clenching his teeth 
and drawing in his breath with a sharp hiss. He 
picked up the hat, looking round furtively, for 
fear lest Mr. Greathead or Dorsy’s successor, 
Mrs. Blenkiron, should have seen him. He 


300 


THE VICTIM 


pinched and pulled it back into shape and brushed 
it carefully and hung it on the stand. He was 
ashamed, not of his violence, but of his futility. 

Nobody but a damned fool, he said to himself, 
would have done that. He must have been mad. 

It wasn’t as if he didn’t know what he was going 
to do. He had known ever since the day when 
Dorsy left him. 

“ I shan’t be myself again till I’ve done him in,” 
he thought. , 

He was only waiting till he had planned it out; 
till he was sure of every detail; till he was fit and 
cool. There must be no hesitation, no uncertainty 
at the last minute, above all, no blind, headlong 
violence. Nobody but a fool would kill in mad 
rage, and forget things, and be caught and swing 
for it. Yet that was what they all did. There was 
always something they hadn’t thought of that gave 
them away. 

Steven had thought of everything, even the date, 
even the weather. 

Mr. Greathead was in the habit of going up to 
London to attend the debates of a learned society 
he belonged to that held its meetings in May 
and November. He always travelled up by the 
five oclock train, so that he might go to bed and 
rest as soon as he arrived. He always stayed for 
a week and gave his housekeeper a week’s holi¬ 
day. Steven chose a dark, threatening day in 
November, when Mr. Greathead was going up to 
his meeting and Mrs. Blenkiron had left East- 


MAY SINCLAIR 


301 


thwaite for Morfe by the early morning ’bus. So 
that there was nobody in the house but Mr. Great- 
head and Steven. 

Eastthwaite Lodge stands alone, grey, hidden 
between the shoulder of the moor and the ash- 
trees of its drive. It is approached by a bridle 
path across the moor, a turning off the road that 
runs from Eastthwaite in Rathdale to Shawe in 
Westleydale, about a mile from the village and a 
mile from Hardraw Pass. No tradesmen visited 
it. Mr. Greathead’s letters and his newspaper 
were shot into a post-box that hung on the ash-tree 
at the turn. 

The hot water laid on in the house was not hot 
enough for Mr. Greathead’s bath, so that every 
morning, while Mr. Greathead shaved, Steven 
came to him with a can of boiling water. 

Mr. Greathead, dressed in a mauve and grey 
striped sleeping-suit, stood shaving himself before 
the looking-glass that hung on the wall beside the 
great white bath. Steven waited with his hand on 
the cold tap, watching the bright curved rod of 
water falling with a thud and a splash. 

In the white, stagnant light from the muffed 
window-pane the knife-blade flame of a small oil- 
stove flickered queerly. The oil sputtered and 
stank. 

Suddenly the wind hissed in the water-pipes and 
cut off the glittering rod. To Steven it seemed 
the suspension of all movement. He would have 
to wait there till the water flowed again before he 


302 


THE VICTIM 


could begin. He tried not to look at Mr. Great- 
head and the lean wattles of his lifted throat. He 
fixed his eyes on the long crack in the soiled green 
distemper of the wall. His nerves were on edge 
with waiting for the water to flow again. The 
fumes of the oil-stove worked on them like a rank 
intoxicant. The soiled green wall gave him a 
sensation of physical sickness. 

He picked up a towel and hung it over the back 
of a chair. Thus he caught sight of his own face 
in the glass above Mr. Greathead’s; it was livid 
against the soiled green wall. Steven stepped aside 
to avoid it. 

“ Don’t you feel well, Steven?” 

“ No, sir.” Steven picked up a small sponge 
and looked at it. 

Mr. Greathead had laid down his razor and was 
wiping the lather from his chin. At that instant, 
with a gurgling, spluttering haste, the water leaped 
from the tap. 

It was then that Steven made his sudden, quiet 
rush. He first gagged Mr. Greathead with the 
sponge, then pushed him back and back against 
the wall and pinned him there with both hands 
round his neck, as he had pinned Ned Oldishaw. 
He pressed in on Mr. Greathead’s throat, strangling 
him. 

Mr. Greathead’s hands flapped in the air, trying 
feebly to beat Steven off; then his arms, pushed 
back by the heave and thrust of Steven’s shoulders, 
dropped. Then Mr. Greathead’s body sank, slid- 


MAY SINCLAIR 


303 


ing along the wall, and fell to the floor, Steven 
still keeping his hold, mounting it, gripping it with 
his knees. His fingers tightened, pressing back 
the blood. Mr. Greathead’s face swelled up; it 
changed horribly. There was a groaning and 
rattling sound in his throat. Steven pressed in 
till it had ceased. 

Then he stripped himself to the waist. He 
stripped Mr. Greathead of his sleeping-suit and 
hung his naked body face downwards in the bath. 
He took his razor and cut the great arteries and 
veins in the neck. He pulled up the plug of the 
waste-pipe, and left the body to drain in the run¬ 
ning water. 

He left it all day and all night. 

He had noticed that murderers swung just for 
want of attention to little things like that; messing 
up themselves and the whole place with blood; 
always forgetting something essential. He had 
no time to think of horrors. From the moment 
he had murdered Mr. Greathead his own neck was 
in danger; he was simply using all his brain and 
nerve to save his neck. He worked with the stern, 
cool hardness of a man going through with an 
unpleasant, necessary job. He had thought of 
everything. 

He had even thought of the dairy. 

It was built on to the back of the house under 
the shelter of the high moor. You entered it 
through the scullery, which cut it off from the 
yard. The window-panes had been removed and 


304 


THE VICTIM 


replaced by sheets of perforated zinc. A large 
corrugated glass skylight lit it from the roof. 
Impossible either to see in or to approach it from 
the outside. It was fitted up with a long, black 
slate shelf, placed, for the convenience of butter- 
makers, at the height of an ordinary work-bench. 
Steven had his tools, a razor, a carving knife, a 
chopper and a meat-saw laid there ready, beside a 
great pile of cotton waste. 

Early the next day he took Mr. Greathead’s 
body out of the bath, wrapped a thick towel round 
the neck and head, carried it down to the dairy 
and stretched it out on the slab. And there he cut 
it up into seventeen pieces. 

These he wrapped in several layers of news¬ 
paper, covering the face and hands first, because, 
at the last moment, they frightened him. He sewed 
them up in two sacks and hid them in the cellar. 

He burnt the towel and the cotton waste in the 
kitchen fire; he cleaned his tools thoroughly and 
put them back in their places; and he washed down 
the marble slab. There wasn^t a spot on the floor 
except for one flagstone where the pink rinsing of 
the slab had splashed over. He scrubbed it for 
half an hour, still seeing the rusty edges of the 
splash long after he had scoured it out. 

He then washed and dressed himself with care. 

As it was war-time Steven could only work by 
day, for a light in the dairy roof would have 
attracted the attention of the police. He had mur¬ 
dered Mr. Greathead on a Tuesday; it was now 


MAY SINCLAIR 


305 


three o^clock on Thursday afternoon. Exactly at 
ten minutes past four he had brought out the car, 
shut in close with its black hood and side curtains. 
He had packed Mr. Greathead's suit-case and 
placed it in the car with his umbrella, railway rug, 
and travelling cap. Also, in a bundle, the clothes 
that his victim would have gone to London in. 

He stowed the body in the two sacks beside him 
on the front. 

By Hardraw Pass, half-way between East- 
thwaite and Shawe, there are three round pits, 
known as the Churns, hollowed out of the grey 
rock and said to be bottomless. Steven had 
thrown stones, big as a man^s chest, down the 
largest pit, to see whether they would be caught 
on any ledge or boulder. They had dropped clean, 
without a sound. 

It poured with rain, the rain that Steven had 
reckoned on. The Pass was dark under the clouds 
and deserted. Steven turned his car so that the 
headlights glared on the pit’s mouth. Then he 
ripped open the sacks and threw down, one by 
one, the seventeen pieces of Mr. Greathead’s body, 
and the sacks after them, and the clothes. 

It was not enough to dispose of Mr. Greathead’s 
dead body; he had to behave as though Mr. Great- 
head were alive. Mr. Greathead had disappeared 
and he had to account for his disappearance. He 
drove on to Shawe station to the five o’clock train, 
taking care to arrive close on its starting. A 
troop-train was due to depart a minute earlier. 


306 


THE VICTIM 


Steven, who had reckoned on the darkness and the 
rain, reckoned also on the hurry and confusion 
on the platform. 

As he had foreseen, there were no porters in 
the station entry; nobody to notice whether 
Mr. Greathead was or was not in the car. He 
carried his things on to the platform and gave the 
suit-case to an old man to label. He dashed into 
the booking-office and took Mr. Greathead’s ticket, 
and then rushed along the platform as if he were 
following his master. He heard himself shouting 
to the guard, Have you seen Mr. Greathead?’’ 
And the guard’s answer, ^^Naw!” and his own 
inspired statement, “ He must have taken his seat 
in the front, then.” He ran to the front of the 
train, shouldering his way among the troops. The 
drawn blinds of the carriages favoured him. 

Steven thrust the umbrella, the rug and the 
travelling cap into an empty compartment, and 
slammed the door to. He tried to shout something 
through the open window; but his tongue was harsh 
and dry against the roof of his mouth, and no sound 
came. He stood, blocking the window, till the 
guard whistled. When the train moved he ran 
alongside with his hand on the window ledge, as 
though he were taking the last instructions of 
his master. A porter pulled him back. 

‘‘ Quick work, that,” said Steven. 

Before he left the station he wired to Mr. Great- 
head’s London hotel, announcing the time of his 
arrival. 


MAY SINCLAIR 


307 


He felt nothing, nothing but the intense relief 
of a man who has saved himself by his own wits 
from a most horrible death. There were even 
moments, in the week that followed, when, so 
powerful was the illusion of his innocence, he could 
have believed that he had really seen Mr. Great- 
head off by the five o’clock train. Moments when 
he literally stood still in amazement before his own 
incredible impunity. Other moments when a sort 
of vanity uplifted him. He had committed a 
murder that for sheer audacity and cool brain 
work surpassed all murders celebrated in the 
history of crime. Unfortunately the very per¬ 
fection of his achievement doomed it to oblivion. 
He had left not a trace. Not a trace. 

Only when he woke in the night a doubt sickened 
him. There was the rusted ring of that splash on 
the dairy floor. He wondered, had he really washed 
it out clean. And he would get up and light a 
candle and go down to the dairy to make sure. 
He knew the exact place; bending over it with the 
candle, he could imagine that he still saw a faint 
outline. 

Daylight reassured him. He knew the exact 
place, but nobody else knew. There was nothing 
to distinguish it from the natural stains in the 
flagstone. Nobody would guess. But he was glad 
when Mrs. Blenkiron came back again. 

On the day that Mr. Greathead was to have 
come home by the four o’clock train Steven drove 
into Shawe and bought a chicken for the master’s 


308 


THE VICTIM 


dinner. He met the four o’clock train and 
expressed surprise that Mr. Greathead had not 
come by it. He said he would be sure to come by 
the seven. He ordered dinner for eight; Mrs. 
Blenkiron roasted the chicken, and Steven met the 
seven o’clock train. This time he showed uneasi¬ 
ness. 

The next day he met all the trains and wired to 
Mr. Greathead’s hotel for information. When the 
manager wired back that Mr. Greathead had not 
arrived, he wrote to his relatives and gave notice to 
the police. 

Three weeks passed. The police and Mr. 
Greathead’s relatives accepted Steven’s state¬ 
ments, backed as they were by the evidence of 
the booking office clerk, the telegraph clerk, the 
guard, the porter who had labelled Mr. Great¬ 
head’s luggage and the hotel manager who had 
received his telegram. Mr. Greathead’s portrait 
was published in the illustrated papers with 
requests for any information which might lead to 
his discovery. Nothing happened, and presently 
he and his disappearance were forgotten. The 
nephew who came down to Eastthwaite to look 
into his affairs was satisfied. His balance at his 
bank was low owing to the non-payment of various 
dividends, but the accounts and the contents of 
Mr. Greathead’s cash-box and bureau were in 
order and Steven had put down every penny he 
had spent. The nephew paid Mrs. Blenkiron’s 
wages and dismissed her and arranged with the 


MAY SINCLAIR 


309 


chauffeur to stay on and take care of the house. 
And as Steven saw that this was the best way to 
escape suspicion, he stayed on. 

Only in Westleydale and Rathdale excitement 
lingered. People wondered and speculated. Mr. 
Greathead had been robbed and murdered in the 
train (Steven said he had had money on him). He 
had lost his memory and wandered goodness knew 
where. He had thrown himself out of the rail¬ 
way carriage. Steven said Mr. Greathead wouldn’t 
do thaty but he shouldn’t be surprised if he lost 
his memory. He knew a man who forgot who he 
was and where he lived. Didn’t know his own 
wife and children. Shell-shock. And lately Mr. 
Greathead’s memory hadn’t been what it was. 
Soon as he got it back he’d turn up again. 
Steven wouldn’t be surprised to see him walking 
in any day. 

But on the whole people noticed that he didn’t 
care to talk much about Mr. Greathead. They 
thought this showed very proper feeling. They 
were sorry for Steven. He had lost his master 
and he had lost Dorsy Oldishaw. And if he did 
half kill Ned Oldishaw, well, young Ned had no 
business to go meddling with his sweetheart. Even 
Mrs. Oldishaw was sorry for him. And when 
Steven came into the bar of the “ King’s Arms ” 
everybody said, “ Good evening, Steve,” and made 
room for him by the fire. 


310 


THE VICTIM 


III 

Steven came and went now as if nothing had 
happened. He made a point of keeping the house 
as it would be kept if Mr. Greathead were alive. 
Mrs. Blenkiron, coming in once a fortnight to wash 
and clean, found the fire lit in Mr. Greathead’s 
study, and his slippers standing on end in the 
fender. Upstairs his bed was made, the clothes 
folded back, ready. This ritual guarded Steven 
not only from the suspicions of outsiders, but from 
his own knowledge. By behaving as though he 
believed that Mr. Greathead was still living he 
almost made himself believe it. By refusing to 
let his mind dwell on the murder he came to forget 
it. His imagination saved him, playing the play 
that kept him sane, till the murder became vague 
to him and fantastic like a thing done in a dream. 
He had waked up and this was the reality; this 
round of caretaking, this look the house had of 
waiting for Mr. Greathead to come back to it. 
He had left off getting up in the night to examine 
the place on the dairy floor. He was no longer 
amazed at his impunity. 

Then suddenly, when he really had forgotten, 
it ended. It was oh a Saturday in January, about 
five o’clock. Steven had heard that Dorsy Oldi- 
shaw was back again, living at the ‘‘ King’s Arms ” 
with her aunt. He had a mad, uncontrollable 
longing to see her again. 

But it was not Dorsy that he saw. 

His way from the Lodge kitchen into the drive 


MAY SINCLAIR 


311 


was through the yard gates and along the flagged 
path under the study window. When he turned 
on to the flags he saw it shuffling along before him. 
The lamplight from the window lit it up. He 
could see distinctly the little old man in the long 
shabby black overcoat, with the grey woollen 
muffler round his neck hunched up above his collar, 
lifting the thin grey hair that stuck out under 
the slouch of the black hat. 

In the first moment that he ^w it Steven had 
no fear. He simply felt that the murder had not 
happened, that he really had dreamed it, and that 
this was Mr. Greathead come back, alive among 
the living. The phantasm was now standing at 
the door of the house, its hand on the door-lmob 
as if about to enter. 

But when Steven came up to the door it was not 
there. 

He stood fixed, staring at the space which had 
emptied itself so horribly. His heart heaved and 
staggered, snatching at his breath. And suddenly 
the memory of the murder rushed at him. He 
saw himself in the bathroom, shut in with his 
victim by the soiled green walls. He smelt the 
reek of the oil-stove; he heard the water running 
from the tap. He felt his feet springing forward, 
and his fingers pressing, tighter and tighter, on 
Mr. Greathead’s throat. He saw Mr. Greathead^s 
hands flapping helplessly, his terrified eyes, his 
face swelling and discoloured, changing horribly, 
and his body sinking to the floor. 


312 


THE VICTIM 


He saw himself in the dairy, afterwards; he 
could hear the thudding, grinding, scraping noises 
of his tools. He saw himself on Hardraw Pass 
and the headlights glaring on the pit’s mouth. 
And the fear and the horror he had not felt then 
came on him now. 

He turned back; he bolted the yard gates and 
all the doors of the house, and shut himself up 
in the lighted kitchen. He took up his magazine. 
The Autocarf and forced himself to read it. Pres¬ 
ently his terror left him. He said to himself it 
was nothing. Nothing but his fancy. He didn’t 
suppose he’d ever see anything again. 

Three days passed. On the third evening, 
Steven had lit the study lamp and was bolting 
the window when he saw it again. 

It stood on the path outside, close against the 
window, looking in. He saw its face distinctly, 
the greyish, stuck-out bud of the underlip, and 
the droop of the pinched nose. The small eyes 
peered at him, glittering. The whole figure had 
a glassy look between the darkness behind it and 
the pane. One moment it stood outside, looking 
in; and the next it was mixed up with the shimmer¬ 
ing picture of the lighted room that hung there 
on the blackness of the trees. Mr. Greathead 
then showed as if reflected, standing with Steven 
in the room. 

And now he was outside again, looking at him, 
looking at him through the pane. 

Steven’s stomach sank and dragged, making him 


MAY SINCLAIR 


313 


feel sick. He pulled down the blind between him 
and Mr. Greathead, clamped the shutters to and 
drew the curtains over them. He locked and 
double-bolted the front door, all the doors, to keep 
Mr. Greathead out. But, once that night, as he 
lay in bed, he heard the '' shoob-shoob of feet 
shuffling along the flagged passages, up the stairs, 
and across the landing outside his door. The door 
handle rattled; but nothing came. He lay awake 
till morning, the sweat running off his skin, his 
heart plunging and quivering with terror. 

When he got up he saw a white, scared face in 
the looking-glass. A face with a half-open mouth, 
ready to blab, to blurt out his secret; the face 
of an idiot. He was afraid to take that face into 
Eastthwaite or into Shawe. So he shut himself 
up in the house, half-starved on his small stock 
of bread, bacon and groceries. 

Two weeks passed; and then it came again in 
broad daylight. 

It was Mrs. Blenkiron’s morning. He had lit 
the fire in the study at noon and set up Mr. Great- 
head’s slippers in the fender. When he rose from 
his stooping and turned round he saw Mr. Great- 
head’s phantasm standing on the hearthrug close 
in front of him. It was looking at him and smiling 
in a sort of mockery, as if amused at what Steven 
had been doing. It was solid and completely life¬ 
like at first. Then, as Steven in his terror backed 
and backed away from it (he was afraid to turn 
and feel it there behind him), its feet became 


314 


THE VICTIM 


insubstantial. As if undermined, the whole struc¬ 
ture sank and fell together on the floor, where it 
made a pool of some whitish glistening substance 
that mixed with the pattern of the carpet and 
sank through. That was the most horrible thing it 
had done yet, and Steven^s nerve broke under it. 
He went to Mrs. Blenkiron, whom he found scrub¬ 
bing out the dairy. 

She sighed as she wrung out the floor-cloth. 

Eh, these owd yeller stawnes, scroob as you 
will they’ll navver look clean.” 

“ Naw,” he said. “ Scroob and scroob, you’ll 
navver get them clean.” 

She looked up at him. 

“ Eh, lad, what ail’s ’ee? Ye’ve got a faace 
like a wroong dishclout hanging ower t’sink.” 

“ I’ve got the colic.” 

“ Aye, an’ naw woonder wi’ the damp, and they 
misties, an’ your awn bad cooking. Let me roon 
down t’ ‘ King’s Arms ’ and get you a drop of 
whisky.” 

Naw, I’ll gaw down mysen.’ 

He knew now he was afraid to be left alone in 
the house. Down at the “ King’s Arms ” Dorsy 
and Mrs. Oldishaw were sorry for him. By this 
time he was really ill with fright. Dorsy and Mrs. 
Oldishaw said it was a chill. They made him 
lie down on the settle by the kitchen fire and put 
a rug over him, and gave him stiff hot grog to 
drink. He slept. And when he woke he found 
Dorsy sitting beside him with her sewing. 


MAY SINCLAIR 


315 


He sat up and her hand was on his shoulder. 

“ Lay still, lad.’^ 

“ I maun get oop and gaw.’^ 

“Nay, there's naw call for 'ee to gaw. Lay 
still and I'll make thee a coop o' tea." 

He lay still. 

Mrs. Oldishaw had made up a bed for him in 
her son's room, and they kept him there that 
night and till four o'clock the next day. 

When he got up to go Dorsy put on her coat 
and hat. 

“ Is tha gawing out, Dorsy?" 

“ Aye. I canna let thee gaw and set there by 
thysen. I'm cooming oop to set with 'ee till night 
time." 

She came up and they sat side by side in the 
Lodge kitchen by the fire as they used to sit 
when they were together there, holding each 
other's hands and not talking. 

“ Dorsy," he said at last, “ what astha coom 
for? Astha coom to tall me tha'll navver speak 
to me again?" 

“ Nay. Tha knaws what I've coom for." 

“ To saay tha'll marry me?" 

“ Aye." 

“ I maunna marry thee, Dorsy. 'Twouldn't 
be right." 

“ Right? What dostha mean? 'Twouldn't be 
right for me to coom and set wi' thee this road 
ef I doan't marry thee." 

“ Nay. I darena'. Tha said tha was afraid of 


316 


THE VICTIM 


me, Dorsy. I doan’t want ’ee to be afraid. Tha 
said tha’d be unhappy. I doan’t want ’ee to be 
unhappy.” 

“ That was lasst year. I’m not afraid of ’ee, 
now, Steve.” 

“ Tha doan’t knaw me, lass.” 

Aye, I knaw thee. I knaw tha’s sick and 
starved for want of me. Tha canna live wi’out 
thy awn lass to take care of ’ee.” 

She rose. 

“ I maun gaw now. But I’ll be oop tomorrow 
and the next day.” 

And tomorrow and the next day and the next, 
at dusk, the hour that Steven most dreaded, Dorsy 
came. She sat with him till long after the night 
had fallen. 

Steven would have felt safe so long as she was 
with him, but for his fear that Mr. Greathead 
would appear to him while she was there and 
that she would see him. If Dorsy knew he was 
being haunted she might guess why. Or Mr. Great- 
head might take some horrible blood-dripping and 
dismembered shape that would show her how he 
had been murdered. It would be like him, dead, 
to come between them as he had come when he 
was living. 

They were sitting at the round table by the 
fireside. The lamp was lit and Dorsy was bend¬ 
ing over her sewing. Suddenly she looked up, her 
head on one side, listening. Far away inside the 
house, on the flagged passage from the front door, 


MAY SINCLAIR 


317 


he could hear the “ shoob-shoob of the foot¬ 
steps. He could almost believe that Dorsy 
shivered. And somehow, for some reason, this 
time he was not afraid. 

“ Steven,’' she said, “ didsta 'ear anything?” 

Naw. Nobbut t’wind oonder t’roogs.” 

She looked at him; a long wondering look. 
Apparently it satisfied her, for she answered: 
“ Aye. Mebbe ’tes nobbut wind,” and went on 
with her sewing. 

He drew his chair nearer to her to protect her 
if it came. He could almost touch her where she 
sat. 

The latch lifted. The door opened, and, his 
entrance and his passage unseen, Mr. Greathead 
stood before them. 

The table hid the lower half of his form; but 
above it he was steady and solid in his terrible 
semblance of flesh and blood. 

Steven looked at Dorsy. She was staring at 
the phantasm with an innocent, wondering stare 
that had no fear in it at all. Then she looked 
at Steven. An uneasy, frightened, searching look, 
as though to make sure whether he had seen it. 

That was her fear — that he should see it, that 
he should be frightened, that he should be haunted. 

He moved closer and put his hand on her 
shoulder. He thought, perhaps, she might shrink 
from him because she knew that it was he who 
was haunted. But no, she put up her hand and 
held his, gazing up into his face and smiling. 


318 


THE VICTIM 


Then, to his amazement, the phantasm smiled 
back at them; not with mockery, but with a 
strange and terrible sweetness. Its face lit up for 
one instant with a sudden, beautiful shining light; 
then it was gone. 

Did tha see 1m, Steve?’’ 

“ Aye.” 

Astha seen anything afore?” 

Aye, three times I’ve seen ’im.” 

“ Is it that ’as scared thee?” 

’Oo tawled ’ee I was scared?” 

“ I knawed. Because nowt can ’appen to thee 
but I maun knaw it.” 

“ What dostha think, Dorsy?” 

I think tha needna be scared, Steve. ’E’s a 
kind ghawst. Whatever ’e is ’e doan’t mean thee 
no ’arm. T’ owd gentleman navver did when he 
was alive.” 

Didn’ ’e? Didn’ ’e? ’E served me the 
woorst turn ’e could when ’e coomed between thee 
and me.” 

Whatever makes ’ee think that, lad?” 

I doan’ think it. I knaw'* 

“ Nay, loove, tha dostna.” 

’E did. ’E did, I tell thee.” 

Doan’ tha say that,” she cried. “ Doan’ tha 
say it, Stevey.” 

Why shouldn’t I?” 

Tha’ll set folk talking that road.” 

“ What do they knaw to talk about?” 

“ Ef they was to remember what tha said.” 


MAY SINCLAIR 


319 


“ And what did I say?’’ 

Why, that ef annybody was to coom between 
thee and me, tha’d do them in.” 

“ I wasna thinking of ^im. Gawd knaws I 
wasna.” 

They doan’t,” she said. 

Tha knows? Tha knaws I didna mean ’im?” 

“ Aye, I knaw, Steve.” 

An’, Dorsy, tha’rn’t afraid of me? Tha’rn’t 
afraid of me anny more?” 

“ Nay, lad. I loove thee too mooch. I shall 
navver be afraid of ’ee again. Would I coom to 
thee this road ef I was afraid?” 

Tha’ll be afraid now.” 

“ And what should I be afraid of?” 

Why—’m.” 

Tm! I should be a deal more afraid to think 
of ’ee setting with ’im oop ’ere by thysen. Wuntha 
coom down and sleep at aunt’s?” 

“ That I wunna. But I shall set ’ee on t’ road 
passt t’ moor.” 

He went with her down the bridle-path and 
across the moor and along the main-road that 
led through Eastthwaite. They parted at the 
turn where the lights of the village came in sight. 

The moon had risen as Steven went back across 
the moor. The ash-tree at the bridle-path stood 
out clear, its hooked, bending branches black 
against the grey moor-grass. The shadows in the 
ruts laid stripes along the bridle-path, black on 
grey. The house was black-grey in the darkness 


320 


THE VICTIM 


of the drive. Only the lighted study window made 
a golden square in its long wall. 

Before he could go up to bed he would have 
had to put out the study lamp. He was nervous; 
but he no longer felt the sickening and sweating 
terror of the first hauntings. Either he was getting 
used to it, or — something had happened to him. 

He had closed the shutters and put out the 
lamp. His candle made a ring of light round the 
table in the middle of the room. He was about 
to take it up and go when he heard a thin voice 
calling his name: “ Steven.’’ He raised his head 
to listen. The thin thread of sound seemed to 
come from outside, a long way off, at the end of 
the bridle-path. 

This time he could have sworn the sound came 
from inside his head, like the hiss of air in his ears. 

“ Steven-” 

He knew the voice now. It was behind him 
in the room. He turned and saw the phantasm 
of Mr. Greathead sitting, as he used to sit, in the 
arm-chair by the fire. The form was dim in the 
dusk of the room outside the ring of candlelight. 
Steven’s first movement was to snatch up the 
candlestick and hold it between him and the 
phantasm, hoping that the light would cause it to 
disappear. Instead of disappearing the figure 
became clear and solid, indistinguishable from a 
figure of flesh and blood dressed in black broad¬ 
cloth and white linen. Its eyes had the shining 
transparency of blue crystal; they were fixed on 



MAY SINCLAIR 


321 


Steven with a look of quiet, benevolent attention. 
Its small, narrow mouth was lifted at the corners, 
smiling. 

It spoke. 

You needn’t be afraid,” it said. 

The voice was natural now, quiet, measured, 
slightly quavering. Instead of frightening Steven 
it soothed and steadied him. 

He put the candle on the table behind him and 
stood up before the phantasm, fascinated. 

Why are you afraid?” it asked. 

Steven couldn’t answer. He could only stare, 
held there by the shining, hypnotizing eyes. 

“ You are afraid,” it said, because you think 
I’m what you call a ghost, a supernatural thing. 
You think I’m dead and that you killed me. You 
think you took a horrible revenge for a wrong you 
thought I did you. You think I’ve come back to 
frighten you, to revenge myself in my turn. 

And every one of those thoughts of yours, 
Steven, is wrong. I’m real, and my appearance 
is as natural and real as anything in this room — 
more natural and more real if you did but know. 
You didn’t kill me, as you see; for I am here, 
as alive, more alive than you are. Your revenge 
consisted in removing me from a state which had 
become unbearable to a state more delightful than 
you can imagine. I don’t mind telling you, Steven, 
that I was in serious financial difficulties (which, 
by the way, is a good thing for you, as it provides 
a plausible motive for my disappearance). So 


322 


THE VICTIM 


that, as far as revenge goes, the thing was a com¬ 
plete frost. You were my benefactor. Your 
methods were somewhat violent, and I admit you 
gave me some disagreeable moments before my 
actual deliverance; but as I was already develop¬ 
ing rheumatoid arthritis there can be no doubt 
that in your hands my death was more merciful 
than if it had been left to Nature. As for the 
subsequent arrangements, I congratulate you, 
Steven, on your coolness and resource. I always 
said you were equal to any emergency, and that 
your brains would pull you safe through any 
scrape. You committed an appalling and danger¬ 
ous crime, a crime of all things the most difficult to 
conceal, and you contrived so that it was not 
discovered and never will be discovered. And no 
doubt the details of this crime seemed to you hor¬ 
rible and revolting to the last degree; and the 
more horrible and the more revolting they were, 
the more you piqued yourself on your nerve in 
carrying the thing through without a hitch. 

‘‘ I don’t want to put you entirely out of conceit 
with your performance. It was very creditable 
for a beginner, very creditable indeed. But let me 
tell you, this idea of things being horrible and 
revolting is all illusion. The terms are purely 
relative to your limited perceptions. 

“I’m speaking now to your intelligence — I 
don’t mean that practical ingenuity which enabled 
you to dispose of me so neatly. When I say intel¬ 
ligence I mean intelligence. All you did, then. 


MAY SINCLAIR 


323 


was to redistribute matter. To our incorruptible 
sense matter never takes any of those offensive 
forms in which it so often appears to you. Nature 
has evolved all this horror and repulsion just to 
prevent people from making too many little experi¬ 
ments like yours. You mustn’t imagine that these 
things have any eternal importance. Don’t flatter 
yourself you’ve electrified the universe. For minds 
no longer attached to flesh and blood, that hor¬ 
rible butchery you were so proud of, Steven, is 
simply silly. No more terrifying than the spilling 
of red ink or the rearrangement of a jig-saw puzzle. 
I saw the whole business, and I can assure you I 
felt nothing but intense amusement. Your face, 
Steven, was so absurdly serious. You’ve no idea 
what you looked like with that chopper. I’d have 
appeared to you then and told you so, only I 
knew I should frighten you into fits. 

‘‘ And there’s another grand mistake, my lad — 
your thinking that I’m haunting you out of 
revenge, that I’m trying to frighten you. . . . 
My dear Steven, if I’d wanted to frighten you 
I’d have appeared in a very different shape. I 
needn’t remind you what shape I might have 
appeared in. . . . What do you suppose I’ve come 
for?” 

'' I don’t know,” said Steve in a husky whisper. 

Tell me.” 

I’ve come to forgive you. And to save you 
from the horror you would have felt sooner or 
later. And to stop your going on with your crime.” 


324 


THE VICTIM 


“ You needn’t,” Steven said. I’m not going 
on with it. I shall do no more murders.” 

“ There you are again. Can’t you understand 
that I’m not talking about your silly butcher’s 
work? I’m talking about your real crime. Your 
real crime was hating me. 

“ And your very hate was a blunder, Steven. 
You hated me for something I hadn’t done.” 

Aye, what did you do? Tell me that.” 

“You thought I came between you and your 
sweetheart. That night when Dorsy spoke to me, 
you thought I told her to throw you over, didn’t 
you?” 

“ Aye. And what did you tell her?” 

“ I told her to stick to you. It was you, Steven, 
who drove her away. You frightened the child. 
She said she was afraid for her life of you. Not 
because you half killed that poor boy, but because 
of the look on your face before you did it. That 
look of hate, Steven. 

“ I told her not to be afraid of you. I told her 
that if she threw you over you might go altogether 
to the devil; that she might even be responsible 
for some crime. I told her that if she married you 
and was faithful — ij she loved you — I’d answer 
for it you’d never go wrong. 

“ She was too frightened to listen to me. Then I 
told her to think it over what I’d said before she 
did anything. You heard me say that.” 

“ Aye. That’s what I heard you say. I didn’ 
knaw. I thought you’d set her agen me.” 


MAY SINCLAIR 


325 


“ If you don^t believe me, you can ask her, 
Steven.’’ 

“ That’s what she said t’other night. That you 
navver coom between her and me. Navver.” 

“ Never,” the phantasm said. “ And you — 
don’t hate me now?” 

“ Naw. Naw. I should navver ’a hated ’ee. I 
should navver ’a laid a finger on thee, ef I’d 
knawn.” 

It’s not your laying fingers on me, it’s your 
hatred that matters. If that’s done with, the 
whole thing’s done with.” 

“ Is it? Is it? Ef it was knawn, I should have 
to hang for it. Maunna I gie mysen oop? Tell 
me, maun I gie mysen oop?” 

“You want me to decide that for you?” 

“ Aye. Doan’t gaw,” he said. “ Doan’t gaw.” 

It seemed to him that Mr. Greathead’s phan¬ 
tasm was getting a little thin, as if it couldn’t last 
more than an instant. He had never so longed for 
it to go, as he longed now for it to stay and help 
him. 

“ Well, Steven, any flesh-and-blood man would 
tell you to go and get hanged tomorrow; that it 
was no more than your plain duty. And I dare¬ 
say there are some mean, vindictive spirits even 
in my world who would say the same, not because 
they think death important, but because they 
know you do, and want to get even with you that 
way. 

“ It isn’t my way. I consider this little affair 


326 


THE VICTIM 


L 

'C4 

is strictly between ourselves. There isn’t a jury 
of flesh-and-blood men who would understand it. 
They all think death too important.” 

What do you want me to do, then? Tell me 
and I’ll do it! Tell me!” 

He cried it out loud; for Mr. Greathead’s 
phantasm was getting thinner and thinner; it 
dwindled and fluttered, like a light going down. 
Its voice came from somewhere away outside, 
from the other end of the bridle-path. 

Go on living,” it said. Marry Dorsy.” 

I darena. She doan’ knaw I killed ’ee.” 

Oh yes ”— the eyes flickered up, gentle and 
ironic—“ she does. She knew all the time.” 

And with that the phantasm went out. 


The End 













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